Wake Me Not
by 12whitewhine
Summary: Thomas awakes to find himself more lost than ever, but with a chance to finally settle things right. He attempts to understand Jimmy who, on the other hand, battles with the concept of life, death and what's in between. AU. Set post Christmas Special.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: this is my first story, so please be kind! I'm such a fan of the intricacies between Thomas and Jimmy. I don't own the characters! R&R!**

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My sight was bleary when I opened my eyes. My head throbbed with an unforgivable pang. I couldn't feel my body. I tried to move my arms and legs, fervently, but my efforts only went as far as a small jerk.

It was in smelling something aghast that I realized why I was so immobile – I was covered in blood.

My hair was mixed with it, my knuckles were unbearably swollen. However, I was still conscious enough to observe that, given my situation, I looked unbearably beaten.

It seemed that I was involved in a bit of a brawl.

I had to blink around for a few more seconds before my eyes were unclogged from its blurry vision. I was slumped in a dark and damp corner, unattended. _That wouldn't be the first time._ It was already dark and the wind was howling; yet for some reason I can't seem to feel the cold. My body has already failed to a state of numbness that it can't welcome any less arrogant sensation.

After a few more attempts, I finally had the strength to get up. I was a bit wobbly at first, but I soon managed to get out of the cramp situation I was in. Dirty alleys such as those permit more room for misery than sanitation.

I was still trying to fathom as to why I got there in the first place, though. I know my lack of better judgment invites belligerent conduct. But surely not to the point of deconstructing my face! I went to a nearby stream, _presumably with sterile water_, cleansed myself and tried to salvage what manners could be had from my current garb.

I walked down the road, and I began to sense lights in the horizon. The lights were flickering, and dancing to a glitzy tune. As my surroundings became more and more illuminated, it was when I began to recollect the reason why I was thrown to this side of the county. I was attending a fair with the rest of the staff from Downton.

The word Downton made things even more crystal. I was following Jimmy! He won a bet with some bloke, and after our victorious tug-o-war against a few of the townspeople, he began treating everyone with few drinks. And how unscrupulously so.

When he started to prance daftly, I sensed that mischief could be following him any minute. And right I was, two large men began to prowl around him like some cats about to strangle a puny mouse. _Not that he looks like one_.

On the contrary, he is anything but. I managed to heave a deep sigh. Such a beauty he is! His golden locks, smooth skin, oh I could go on.

Thankfully enough, I was there when these fellows were about to gang up on him. I told him to scurry off. He obviously looked terrified. Well, I couldn't believe it myself, but I took the beating for him. I was not so certain that I could manage, but here I am, aren't I?

The next thing I could remember, I was alone in that bloody, no pun intended, mess.

Surely Mrs. Hughes and the others could not have left the place yet? I'm too tall of a person to not go unnoticed! Not to mention that I am of a clearly higher position than the whole lot of them to be left behind rotting desolately.

Not that my foolish attempts to quell my suspicions were of any use, though.

And Jimmy too? It's rather disheartening. I concede I made advances on him, But I actually went through a lot just to protect him. It might come as a relief to him, but had I not had this overwhelming feeling of care for him, then he might be the one in my place, devastated and badly bruised.

Surely he must have waited for me? Or maybe he had made a gallant attempt to postpone the leaving and consider that I might be immobilized?

That the moon was already beaming its rays did not comfort my hopes up one bit. As I trotted around, I notice all the stalls for the fair were still assembled. There was the booth where Daisy won a prize, there were the tables where Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore had tea.

But no sight of any of my comrades.

_Comrades_, such a peculiar term for me to use. I highly doubt they'd refer me as the same. To them, I'm somebody from the same employer, maybe, but never comrade. I've caused more than enough mischief in a lifetime. I would understand it if all were to despise me, I haven't been under the good graces of most of the staff at Downton. If a tree were to fall for each misdemeanor I did, the world would already be as bald as Molesley's temples.

There's always an exception, though. Jimmy. He was the one person who, even at first sight, I never plotted against. I never dared to radiate anything poisonous. He was a fine lad. We could have been really nice friends, he and I.

Unfortunately I had to ruin it when I placed a little peck on his lips while he was beautifully asleep.

I knew that I shouldn't have listened to O' Brien who, by the way, was a very close friend of mine. I take extra caution to emphasize that the word "_was"_ is in the past tense.

Jimmy would never have the same feelings for me. Fancied ladies, he does.

But at the same time, I do admit that I was bound to lose control one way or the other. Fate would have me pounce upon him, and with this thought I almost cracked into an ever so slight smile.

I shook my head, it is no good of an idea to dally about fanciful affairs at this time of the night. I am doomed, and Carson will hang me upside down.

I hawked around the area a good three times before I gave up.

I suppose I have no choice but to dart to Downton now. My dear life depends on it.


	2. Chapter 2

That run took me to the edge of my breath! My health isn't as cooperative, and I am sure to feel its retribution tomorrow in the form of sore legs.

To say that Downton's structure modest would be the most understating understatement. Its appearance beams with history and pride; its walls protecting those that are legally sheltered inside. It has been witness to countless generations of Crawleys, and the servants. I've spent a good 10 years here, and although I've come to a few close calls with being kicked out, I consider the place home.

_As if I have any else_.

I was nearing the servant's entrance when I noticed that it was still open. Seriously, at this time of the night?

I began to search for some cigars on my pockets, but, to my disappointment, found none. "I suppose those bloody bandits took them away as well." Irritated, I entered the house.

There was no one at the servant's hall. There was no one in the kitchen. I couldn't hear the boisterous tone of Mrs. Patmore, possibly the quirkiest woman on earth.

All the other hall boys and maids aren't convening on the huge table. I suppose there's an occasion I am not aware of?

Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes aren't in their respective offices either.

Anna and Bates aren't lampooning around in the hall. Though to be honest, I was relieved. Anna is a pretty girl after all, and Bates is as plain as his name suggests.

"Love is blind," I mumbled silently.

But most peculiarly, O'Brien isn't also anywhere her spying corners. I call them as such because this was where she would lurk about waiting for the next hearsay. We may not be as solid, but I would have to give credit to her resourcefulness because these locations are really conducive for overhearing even the most hushed auditory activity. That, and the information we have managed to pool in are all good sources of blackmailing.

Against my better judgment, I ascended from the basement and see if maybe there is some living soul left in this house.

And then I heard murmurs. They were barely audible.

Well, I was barely upstairs.

I then saw everyone. All of them were at the lobby, which is quite a strange sight. The only other time where we all get to be like this is on Christmas day, where the people from the upstairs give their tokens of appreciation for our service.

But Christmas isn't until a few months away? We haven't even cut a tree yet!

As I have been craving for human interaction, I walked, head held high, to the scene, particularly to where Mr. Carson stands.

"Mr. Carson, I'm terribly sorry –"

"I am sure this is a sad day for all of us." Lord Grantham motioned from the other end of the room, his voice a bit squeaky, but loud enough for Carson not to hear my apology.

His Lordship continued. "I cannot believe that this house, in a short span of time, has witnessed such unwanted tragedies one after the other. And I would like to take this opportunity to tell you all that the Crawley family values your service and respects your unwavering dedication to this house."

Lady Grantham, who was beside him, put her hand around her husband's arm, as if to reassure the staff that his Lordship's thoughts are echoed by the whole family.

With this, Anna burst out into tears. Whatever was happening?

Lady Mary went to her side and comforted her. She wasn't one to be polite during the situation, the poor lass just kept on crying and barely noticed her employer beside her.

Perhaps something has happened to Bates?

I then looked to my left, and I saw him, hidden in perfect view by a huge statue of a soldier.

Why does Anna keep on being soppy when her husband, though crippled, is perfect condition. Who else could she care about?

My face suddenly trickled with cold sweat. It couldn't possibly be?

I pace a few steps forward, not minding if I were to be considered an interruption as to the sacrament that was coming into fruition before me. My eyes hovered from left to right, wishing at every turn that my fears were only unfounded.

And when I looked at the far right of the lobby, I saw him.

Jimmy was fine. _Fine might not be the word._ He looked alive, yet… incredibly disheveled. I can see from where I am that his eyes were tired and distant, his hair a bit unkempt, and his livery! Where do I begin, it was untucked, there was a seam which, to a hawk's eye like mine, screams for an immediate repair. Somber moments, as to the reason of which I am still unaware, like these are not to be considered as excuses for improper dressing.

Yet no one seemed to notice at all.

I began to pace a bit towards his direction when he suddenly winced. He was attempting to maintain a sense of composure, which, to my dismay, eventually turned into uncontrollable sobbing.

I thought that would be the end of this travesty.

"It should not have been like this! Meeting us up here only made me feel more guilty about what happened!" He shouted.

"James!" Carson's lion of a voice boomed.

"Now, now Carson, there is no need to impose an absolute formality in these moments of grief," Lord Grantham strode towards Jimmy and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let him be."

Mr. Carson gave a slight gruff. Jimmy's erratic behavior would not go unnoticed once the staff gets dismissed. I decided to tame down whatever consternation Carson shall lash at Jimmy later.

I attempted to tap his shoulder so that he would finally notice me. "Mr. Carson, I know it's quite rude of James –"

Good God. I froze to death.

There happened a spectacle before my very eyes.

I disbelieved what happened at first, so I attempted again, to many failures.

I couldn't touch him.

Actually, to put it quite literally, my hand passed through his shoulder.

"Blimey," I shuddered.

I might just be dreaming, or perhaps I was merely hallucinating from the loss of too much blood. I pinched myself, which although hurt me, did not give me that much torment to bring me to a waking state.

My eyes were beginning to brim with tears when Carson suddenly faced me.

"Oh finally, we can talk," I offered.

The next thing that happened were even more macabre. He did not hear me. Instead, he walked past -no- he _phased_ through me.

I would have to do a little more than pinching to finally get me awake.

As I was standing between the hallway and the stairs, I felt my intangibility affirm itself every time one of the staff would walk past me.

I was as static as the air in the room. I was as naught as the silence that filled the halls.

After everyone had gone down (and up, as the Crawleys). I slumped down a chair and give permission for my eyes to release the salty waters that have been brimming. I cried. I never had done it for a long time, but it was the only proper thing to do.

As I held my face in my hands, I muttered to myself. "Is it possible?"

Realizing the fact that my volume is of no chance to cause a ruckus, my speech suddenly became louder and louder.

"I'm dead."

Louder.

"I'm bloody dead!"

I chuckled a bit. I never knew I could be given the opportunity to freely shout with hysteria anywhere within a hundred yards from Downton. Yet here I am, inside!

After spending a few more minutes accommodating whatever ravine of water that escaped my eyes, I realized that I badly needed fresh air. I shakily stood up and proceeded to the back entrance when I heard footsteps behind me.

"So you've finally come into terms, I see."

It was a woman's voice. Sweet, pristine, and young. And most terrifyingly familiar.

I looked around, and, if it is even possible, I managed to be more shocked that how I was. My perception of possibility has clearly been stretched.

"Don't worry," the figure moved towards me. "There's nothing to be afraid of. You can hear me, and I most definitely can, and will hear you."

Her olive eyes glimmered. It wasn't an icy stare, but rather, it glared some form of sincere assurance. All I could do was stand still – not because I was afraid of what was before me, but because I might just finally have some explanation as to why I am so.

It was Lady Sybil.


	3. Chapter 3

The youngest Crawley was wearing a… white gown?

It was nothing fancy, really. On the contrary, it was quite unbecoming of a woman of honorable blood. All over her gown, there were faded red blotches. My knowledge of being a medic in the war gave me a fair, working assumption that it was blood. Perhaps this is the one she wore during her last breathing moments?

I then looked at what I was wearing. It was undeniably dirty, but more than that, the coat, the pants – this was my outfit in the fair! When fate transplanted me to the other world!

Really, one would think that the man to whom the highest degree of veneration is accorded (I'm talking to you, God) would have given the afterlife a more dignified sense of fashion.

If I knew about my impending end, I'd have worn a crown clustered with all the earth's jewels.

"Well that removes the last doubt," I heaved. There was no sense in reiterating these things any longer.

She took an ever so slight step towards me. "About what?"

"Of my physical decay, what else? There is not a shadow of evidence proving the opposite." I chuckled, surprised at the fact that I could still make a laugh out of the situation.

Then I suddenly cringed when I realized who I was speaking with. "I'm sorry, my lady –" God, I really repulse myself sometimes.

"Oh don't be," she cut me off. "We're not anymore part of the world as we knew. Besides, I never cared about the title preceding my name. I suppose you know that already."

Lady Sybil was my favorite of the Crawley sisters. She was the most, to avoid overstating, humble of the three. Never one for formalities, she valued a person's character more than title – a most striking quality for people of her lot. She never let her noble title get in the way of expressing her temperament, sometimes to her grandmother's chagrin.

The most obvious example? Take the simple fact of her marriage to Tom Branson, a former chauffer.

Suppose we exchange places for one day, she'd be pleased to know that I'm a bit like her (not that I'd marry Tom). We both can stand on our own, independent selves. However, and I say this in least startling manner possible, the major difference is that she steers clear from trampling on people's reputations.

I, on the other hand, manage to create strength and security by blackmailing and using people. Sometimes, my mind ventures into the possibility that I may have been a hated, ruthless emperor during my past life.

A strong and sensible woman, she was. With all her good deeds, a person like her must be rewarded gratuitously by God. At least as far as my knowledge on the afterlife, which is incredibly being tested, provides.

I clasped my hands. Either this was a crude joke or a sign of divine clemency.

"Am in heaven, my lady?"

"What made you say that?" She smirked.

A thousand different, well-worded thoughts rushed through my head, but I could only mutter, in the least poetic recollection, "well, we are dead. And I am with you."

I paused, trying to wander my thoughts back into order.

"Surely, you don't deserve to be in hell! Am I to take it that my sins have been reprieved?"

My cheeks were crimson from embarrassment. Those who hold the opinion that it is impossible for the dead to experience a rush of blood to the head are now clearly debunked.

Returning to the matter at hand, I do hope I got the message across, and that she overlooked the lack of sense in my words.

She beamed, substituting her worry with a peculiar glee. "Oh Thomas, you think too virtuously of me! But I am flattered, really."

I managed to crack a smile, as hers was quite infectious, even in the afterlife.

"Please, just call me Sybil." She beckoned me to come nearer.

"Lady – sorry – Sybil." I walked nearer. "Sybil. I apologize for the atrocious banter that you unfortunately witnessed. It's just that I was not expecting you here… with me… dead. This is too auspicious for my sake."

Seriously, where's your halo? Where are my horns? And why don't I have a pitchfork of terrifying proportions?

"I understand, Thomas." She was near enough for me to briefly examine the changes that have took permanent residence on her appearance. Her eyes were noticeably drained with life. Her posture was not as upright. Granting the very legitimate excuse that she was not anymore alive, she still, to me, looked dignified and undeniably regal. Her good nature transcends to her external likeness. And I have been convinced of that truth.

She looked at my in the eyes, channeling the greatest amount of empathy. "I know that things right now are beyond perplexed to you. But know that I am here to aid you. Help you understand, call it a crash course of sorts."

That's something interesting, innit? It is now an undoubted observation that even in death, there is much to learn.

"Oh, yes, of course," I said, mouth half-opened. From the tone of her words, I began to feel truly horrified of what she was about to voice next.

Such was my disposition that if I were to have a mirror in front of me, I would describe myself as somewhere between brittle and fluctuating. My eyes were wide, yearning for some sense and explanation, yet my mouth was frozen in massive disbelief that I was regretfully dead, intensified by the realization that I was consequently talking to a dead woman.

I rubbed my hands to my cheeks, feeling for something that was any dirt that might have tinted itself to my porcelain skin. I viewed my hands, and saw that there were black marks on my fingertips. Sensing the need to address some vanity, I scoured around the hall for the nearest looking glass. I remembered there was one beside the door to the drawing room.

Yet Lady Sybil was steps ahead of my thoughts. "You can't see your reflection. That's rule number one." _Bollocks. _

I dedicated a moment of silence to get a clear understanding of the repercussions of not having anymore to see the face that swept a hundred kitchen maids away.

I gave my search up. Lady Sybil approached me, a little more closer this time, and put her hands on my face. Her left hand clenched my jaw while her right one wiped across my forehead down to my chin. I reckoned that she was attempting to clean the signs of untidiness enumerated all over my face.

"I suppose I look less horrendous now." It was a rhetorical question, which answer is to be in the affirmative. Thankfully, Sybil (still feels rather incomplete calling her without a title) nodded. I hoped and believed that she was not doing that in jest.

"If you would please, I want to start my journey towards the full understanding of this kind of –," I thought twice, " – life."

Under these circumstances, we found ourselves in the middle of the lobby, face to face. The moonlight seeped through the coloured glass that were situated on the walls beside the staircase. Traces of blue, red, and yellow latched on to our skin; it was a fit and beautiful addition of unearthliness.

"First, I want to tell you that we are not in heaven." I figured. With my presence, it was to be expected. "We still roam about the same environment as those who are living." She began to walk around, with her hands placed on her stomach. "This is what is called the circumstance of transit."

My eyes were glued to the carpet below. I can feel that she was circling around as she continued.

"See, Thomas, before we go to where our rightful place is, we are given the opportunity to," she paused, "part ways with those we care and love. Death is most certainly not something that one can prophesize."

With this, a warm sensation began to loosely scintillate in my stomach. "Say goodbye, you mean?"

"Oh I wouldn't call it that. It's more of a closure which has the possibility of turning out to be one-sided." She looked at me to see if I could follow her train of thought, but seeing my blank stare undoubtedly besmirched her assumption.

One-sided? Would that not be a bit desperate to ponder?

Seeing the yearning coming from my eyes, she quickly cut to the point. "We are given opportunities to enter inside someone's dream."

The declaration was not anywhere near satisfactory, yet I have never been so completely awestruck.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Chapters 3 and 4 are to be read together. I separated them because they were too long if combined. I felt the need to describe the situation that Thomas was in first. Thank you for reading!**

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If I am, indeed, understanding the situation correctly, I gather that I am given the chance to potentially be sensed, seen, and be spoken to by a breathing creature again.

"Please forgive the lack of cordiality, Sybil. I am not very acquainted with my spiritual side, and the instances that I have been through for the past few hours more than justified my lack of discernment between what's possible and otherwise." My voice cracked at the last sentence. I was drained of courtesy, left only with an uncontrollable dosage of insecurity "How are these – the things that you talk about – to take effect?"

Sybil studied my expression, and concluded that the subject should be approached with as much clarity.

"Thomas, this sphere that we reside in and the sphere of dreams are unimaginably proximate. The two are linked each other more than the real world. When a person sleeps, his spirit travels from the waking reality to the sphere of dreams."

She suddenly gave a wry smile that settled into a sheepish grin. "I'm sorry. Never has the possibility of assuming the role of a spiritual counselor entered my mind, yet here I am preaching."

In the spirit, pun intended, of impartiality, she was performing a rather excellent job.

I returned the humor. "Oh don't worry. You've just lectured me more than what I have received from the priest." I placed my hands behind my back, as if signaling her to proceed. "How exactly, Sybil, does one enter a dream?"

On cue, she spoke matter-of-factly, "you approach a sleeping person and press your hand against his forehead."

I attempted to make allowances for different interpretations to her instruction, yet each and every one of them resembled exorcism. I mentally cowered at the sight.

"Then you shall feel unease, as if something is attempting to smolder you into pieces. Head and cold shall mix inside your body. It's absolutely unbearable. You shall experience a temporary white-out which can feel like a long time, but is only for a few seconds." What an encouraging thought.

"Then, the moment you open your eyes and regain consciousness, you are already in the dream. The person controls the dream. You cannot alter the situation, as you merely play a role whose significance you cannot restrict nor augment."

I pursed my lips for a few seconds to grasp at what she said. "You seem quite the expert, what with your vivid description and all." I was referring particularly to the detonation of an already dead person. Must I still undergo these perils, God?

She looked upwards, searching for words. "After having gone through it a couple of times, one would earnestly make that assumption, but it's actually the contrary. Though I do need to get accustomed to it, I only have a few chances left."

Whatever does she mean?

"We are only given five opportunities, not distinguishing between those that are misspent and those that have been favorable." She sighed.

I see, reeling from the thought that the experience isn't as soundly considerate as I theorized it to be. "How many have you used?"

"Three, and thankfully two of which proved to be a success." came her reply.

"The other one?"

Sybil flinched. "One-sided," largely referring to her earlier discussion.

"Who have you visited?"

A few seconds of stillness. She was obviously trying to remain calm.

"Sybil." A tear began to fall down her face when she mentioned her daughter's name. "It's not as if I have any other option to tell her that I love her."

Her voice was now cracking with candor, "I wanted to assure her that I'm here."

This time, the silence came from me. I stood in the midst of a woman who was sanctioned a vicious punishment to nevermore be with the one that gave her life meaning.

"I'm sorry, " my faint voice attempted to articulate. "I feel like I've encroached on something very personal." Tears, which I miserably attempted to ignore, were now beginning to well from my eyes.

She gave me a reassuring look. "Don't be. I'm honestly relieved that I finally have someone to talk to. It can get quite lonely being dead, you know."

Sybil sat on the first step of the stairs, which led me to introduce another inquiry to which I wished would put and end to this mournful situation. "How come we can sit and feel the stairs and doors and chairs, yet, to my great dismay, phase through people?"

"Because these things aren't breathing. In the first place, there isn't any life to forfeit." She seemed to welcome the new topic, clearly wanting to evade any more incrimination questions. "We can feel them because they're pretty much like us – dead. For those who are actually breathing, I'm afraid they are positioned in a different existence."

I should fail as an excellent communicator if I didn't take up her cue to continue with the new topic. "I refuse to believe that my social status has degraded even further from a servant to an ancient, wretched chair!" I chided while I sat next to her.

"Oh it's not that bad!" she exclaimed, her tears now dissipating. "It makes snooping around other people's businesses much more easier."

This time, I did not think it necessary to take a step farther in the topic of tittle-tattles, as I would then be the one to turn to silence. I wouldn't let out a wail since my deeds weren't illicit enough to completely deprive myself of morality, nor would I deny anything. But I submit that it is more proper to sympathize with what self-respect I have left. Besides, Sybil might not as comfortable conversing with me. _  
_

"So, the circumstance of transit, eh?" I reseated myself a few steps above Sybil. "Is there anything else that I need to know?"

She looked at her own hands that seemed to have a life (I simply can't refrain from using that word that I now consider as daft) of their own entangling themselves. "We can only come into tangible contact with this lot," her fingers were undone from their knots, and pointed to the non-living things around the room. "We cannot, in any way, rearrange or move them. For example, you cannot move the chair to another room, you cannot lift a spoon, and you cannot open the door."

Each mention of a limitation gradually weighed me down. I cannot open the door? What if I wanted to get out? "It's a good thing you appeared before I could begin my way downstairs. It saved me some energy," I said.

She merely gave a mocking, dry glance. "You could assume that we are trapped inside until somebody opens the door and unconsciously lets us out."

I cannot believe that inside my heart, there was blooming an inexplicable rage for a rectangular frame of wood. I am about to axe that bloody door down. _If I could hold an axe._

"At least it won't be me opening them this time," it was all I could generously manage.

Basically, doors are of much more value than me. In support of this unmatched epitome, I cursed at each of the million kowtows I performed every time some bloody noble would walk through the main entrance of the house. My self-worth was on its last legs.

"If your claims are to be true, sure there must be an exception? I mean, is there anything that I can touch that can possibly send some signal to a living person that I'm actually in the same area?" I could not conceal the hope in my tone, though I am prepared of the possibility of disappointment.

Sybil hesitated for a moment, as if unsure of believing her own statement. "Well, I only recently found that there is one."

I could have sworn that the moonlight glowed brighter, though I haven't completely heard her declaration.

"Water." She stated.

It was a bit late before I realized that I was actually nodding. "Indeed." I mentioned the words several times, still bobbing my head. I must have looked like a dog who could not avoid boasting of a newfound bone.

Sybil seemed to grow impatient of my beastly behavior. "You see, I was beside my daughter when she accidentally spilt the water on her basin." She continued, "I forgot for a moment that I was dead so I immediately attended to her because I could sense that she was about to cry. Though I did not turn over the basin, I noticed that I could, for lack of a better word, splash the water. And when I did so, she noticed it!"

I was half in shock, and completely happy for that discovery. Though I am alarmed at my current situation, I simply refuse to believe that there exists no remedy to vindicate the both of us.

"I thought I was dreaming, if that is even possible, so I tried it again a few times." Her voice asserted calmness then excitement, "suddenly, she stopped crying! She even joined me in the sloshing! She began to smile, and that's when things switched between the two of us. She was the laughing, while I started crying."

Yet another fresh wound reopened. I could really and absolutely be the perfect human manifestation of insensitivity, and sometimes, I am not proud of it.

I scampered for any possible and sensible reply. Before any tears could be shed, I thought of the perfect interjection, and I must say that it was as comforting. "I didn't notice it until you pointed it out. When I woke up, and thought I was still alive, I went to the nearest stream and washed my face with water. I actually felt and saw it dribble back to the ground."

I noticed that I didn't make as much progress as I hoped. Sybil's stern face was unchanged. Seeming to want to get out of her own desolation, she diverted her attention to me, "who shall you visit, Thomas?"

I was startled at the question, more with the manner than the content. Yet I didn't seem to buckle to hunt for an answer.

"The person I died for."

After engaging the discourse of what is to be expected, this circumstance of transit might be my last chance to properly address my feelings for Jimmy.

She posed no follow-up.

"By the way, Sybil," I still couldn't come into terms with calling her on a first name basis, "save for your discovery on the importance of liquid, who taught you all these? In your first few hours of grave longing, someone must have briefed you on the protocol."

She walked slowly to the center of the lobby before facing me again.

"You do remember Lavinia Swire, don't you?"


	5. Chapter 5

Lady Sybil and I spent the better part of the night discussing about the afterlife. I was surprised to discover that she actually started her sojourn after death more lost than I was. It wasn't exactly an ecstasy of freedom. Thankfully Lavinia was there. It was quite ironic actually, Sybil tried to keep Lavinia alive, yet Lavinia welcomed Sybil in death.

Lavinia was taught the ways of the dead by William.

"Yes, the footman you so abused." Sybil scolded, with one eyebrow raised.

It was William who had to start off on his own unaccompanied self because at the time he arrived in the afterworld, no one was still in the completion of the circumstance of transit.

William and his memories flashed through my mind. He was a brave man with indolent blue eyes. When we were still footmen, I was absolutely grating on him, as frowningly pointed by Sybil. I longed to be promoted faster than him, so I did what it took – those aboveboard and otherwise.

Yet for all I remembered, he was never one to retaliate cruelly. Perhaps I was only really jealous of him, that he got to have so many friends, people loved him dearly, he had a family, and that he was brave to have fought in the name of the king.

While I was a mere coward. An insufferable milksop.

He possessed an incorrupt spirit. It's such an undeserved misfortune that he was only able to be with Daisy, the love of his life, for a few moments. The love of his life who never loved him back. _Though I suppose you are fully aware of that travesty now, William._

We spent our chat by the windows so it was apparent to observe the dawn slowly creeping in the house. We decided to part ways for the meantime. She told me that this would be an appropriate time for me to re-acquaint myself with the house's way of life, without having to actually take part in it.

"You'll see the foolishness of this system we live in." She lambasted with conviction. On cue, I proceeded downstairs.

The servant's dining was awfully noiseless for breakfast. Everybody was focused on their plates, eating their breakfast, a peculiar behavior which impliedly evades the topic of my death.

Still, I was surprised. I am very acquainted with the fact that I wasn't the most helpful person downstairs, neither the most compassionate. I never even troubled myself to aid some of these people out in desperate times. However, I can clearly sense that there was some sort of desolation that emanated from all of them. _Well, most of them._

Perhaps this is one of the effects of being a spirit. I began to notice my sense of empathy heightened.

The deafening silence continued, save for the occasional clanking of teacups and cutlery.

I felt the feeling of sorrow most intensely from Anna. I am quite aware of her good nature, yet I never expected her to care that immensely. I can be assured that her kindness was not born out of courtesy, or her English heritage for that matter, but out of something sincere.

Suddenly one of the hall boys, whose name I cannot recall, entered. He brought in the newspapers, and handed it to Mr. Carson. "You shall bring it to Mrs. Hughes' office and have them pressed for his lordship to read later."

"Right you are, sir." The young boy replied, leaving to obey the butler's order.

Anna suddenly commented. "When Thomas was a footman, I remembered that's what he always loved to do. Press the papers, I mean. Before his lordship could even read them, Thomas would already be aware of the days' happenings! He would read them first."

A tear swelled down her eye, her voice breaking.

"I'm sorry." She said.

Mrs Hughes stood up from her seat and patted her. "It's alright Anna, it's normal to feel sadness for such a valuable loss." She consoled her. "I can't say I do not feel the same."

"I quite agree, just never let it interfere with your duties." Carson pronounced.

The butler, always the figure of authority. I speculated if there was ever an instance when he felt less reserved.

He did not flinch in finishing his bread. Yet, I sensed (thanks to my newfound extrasensory ability) that he was also trying his absolute best to conceal his own sentiment – one unbound by formalities.

I've always had a toweringly high esteem for Mr. Carson. Truly, he's human but he handles his professional affairs so faultlessly that sometimes I begin to ponder if he's merely authority and principles breathed to life. He considers his work an apex of his existence over his personal affairs. He is strict beyond compare, and a moral beacon amongst us. I never knew much about his family, nor any of his private dealings because it's obviously highly classified.

But his infallible regard for profession over a fellow mortal was proven wrong (or given an exception) when he stood up for me when Jimmy attempted to report my misdemeanor. He equitably tempered his authority with compassion. I fathomed that he not only leads the staff, but he looks after them as well.

Speaking of Jimmy, he was quiet all this time, looking down at his tea.

The rest of breakfast went by smoothly. Suddenly, the bells started ringing one by one, with O'Brien, Bates, and Anna excusing themselves to serve their masters. All that were left were the footmen, Jimmy and Alfred, awaiting the signal of Mrs. Patmore to get the food to be served upstairs.

A few moments later, Daisy entered the servant's hall. "The sauce is ready, Alfred. One of the kitchen maids will give it to you." She didn't even look at the tall bloke. She was too focused on clearing the area of any plates. "Oh and Jimmy, Mrs. Patmore wants you to bring the chicken instead of the beef, so will you please get that tray from the kitchen?"

Jimmy didn't reply but stood up slowly instead to affirm the request. When he began to take a few steps towards the kitchen, he began to sway, almost lightheadedly. He stopped in his tracks and placed one of his hands on the wall to regain balance.

Mrs. Hughes, who hasn't left the table yet, noticed the boy's wobbly steps. She was quite alarmed.

"Jimmy -," she didn't even manage her next words.

Jimmy looked, no, stared at her fervently. I detected that his eyes were bloodshot with the red veins beginning to form a web around the blue center. Light clearly absent, black circles were beginning to form around them. It was pretty obvious even if from afar. His stare could cut and paralyze anything that went through it. Yet his deathly gaze was empty – one of a bewildered person in a zone of misconceptions. His hands were still firmly pressed to the wall.

I couldn't fathom if his appearance was such because he was crying, or because he simply lacked a substantial amount of sleep. Still, a pang of concern made its way right through me because, although it wasn't as straightforward, I felt like I had something to do with everything.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hughes." He straightened his suit and wiped his eyes. "For worrying you, I mean." He brisked past her and entered the kitchen to get the tray.

Mrs. Hughes was still quiet, unable to find the words to reply. Jimmy's stare immobilized her.

"Mrs. Hughes?" Alfred mustered, worried.

Slowly disenchanting herself, she quickly rejoined, "I'm fine, Alfred. You will proceed to serve the family now." She left without saying another word.

After that incident, the rest of the morning moved about quite unhurriedly, perhaps due to the lack of activities that could have preoccupied a dead person like me. Honestly, all I did was walk, sit, and listen. Being passive is unstimulating.

I caught sight of Lady Sybil descending the stairs. My eyes gleamed at the sight of someone who actually knows of my existence.

"I expect you have a lot to tell me, then," she gave me a bemused stare. "shall we talk about it over lunch? It's supposed to start now."

"Very good, my lady."

"Not with that title again," she gave me a slight prod. "Shall we walk together?"

We entered the dining room discussing about our morning. She was playing with Sybil the whole time. Of course, they didn't see nor directly interact with each other. Unfortunately, nor could she move the balls and heaps of dolls surrounding her daughter.

But the little Sybil seemed to enjoy the invisible company.

I told her about how surprised I was at the solemn mood downstairs. "You'd think that after all the spiteful calamities I've done, people would actually be thankful."

She smiled at me. "How lowly must you think of yourself, Mr. Barrow?"

"Low enough to not have other people take time for me or what I have left." I replied sharply. It was honestly all I could think of. I did not bother to be polite.

She just bit her lip, and, sensing my comfort, proceeded to change the topic.

"Look at this, people serving and standing by other people who eat and sit. It's bizarre." Lord Grantham, Matthew Crawley, and the Dowager Countess were dining, while Jimmy, Alfred, and Mr. Carson were serving.

She began to walk close to where her father was. "Don't misconstrue me, I don't want to bite the hand that fed me, but I opine that people are supposed to be on more equal footing that this. The disparity is simply outlandish."

I chuckled at the reality of an aristocrat complaining about her stature. "But Sybil, it's not as bad as it seems. For starters, we get brag to our mates that we live in a massive house. We just leave the part that we don't live on the same floor, though." I was beginning to feel less emotional again.

I was about to continue the discourse on the benefits of being a footman when Lord Grantham suddenly, albeit indirectly, interrupted me.

"James, are you feeling alright?" His lordship asked. Jimmy was serving him with the main course.

It took Jimmy a few seconds to respond, but long enough for Carson to remark on his silence.

"His Lordship is merely asking a simple question, James." There he goes again.

Jimmy stood up to his most impersonal posture. "I am very good, sir. Perfect, even." He still had a lifeless face, which kept it until now. His expression was without the possibility of figuring out whether he was sad or apathetic. A most effective way to repel any insinuation of hurt. It was quite convincing with his statement.

His Lordship gave Carson an unrelenting look after Jimmy's reply, signaling him to tone down his authority and not give him a full-blown confabulation on manners later.

Jimmy did not speak anymore after that. He proceeded to the corner of the dining area, safe and sound.

I walked up to him, close enough to stare at his face. He was staring at me too, but he doesn't know. My earlier suspicion about his eyes were confirmed, but it was also when I stared hard enough that I realized something more petrifying.

On a normal day, his eyes partake of the clear sky on a summer's day. It was unbruised by hurt. But now, it is a lampless, cold ocean copious of doubt. All the control that he could muster on the outside are considerably lost and impaired with the torrents of internal confusion and sore anguish. He was fighting with himself.

His eyebrows weren't crouched, straight as ever. It was decidedly immobile. His face was uncomfortably sharp as stone. It is taking all of his strength to calm his outward appearance down. His lips were pursed to prevent any quiver. His skin was noticeably paler, bereft of warmth.

Though I must agree that he was doing a fairly impressive job in his act. "Taught by the best, I see," murmuring to, and silently congratulating, myself.

I looked at Carson the same way his Lordship did, wanting to shout at the butler. If he is indeed employing the same fortress of defense as I did, Jimmy is in terrible need of someone to listen to him. Someone to see through all those barriers.

In case Carson failed to notice, Jimmy's silence has never screamed so loud.

"You care about him, don't you?" Sybil asked ambivalently, probably wondering if she was trespassing on something personal.

I looked at her, the tears trickling down my eyes starting to confirm her suspicion.

"I died for him." I yearned to be as honest as possible in answering. I've already had generous lies to last me a lifetime, I suppose it can change that now that I'm dead.

I began to snivel uncontrollably. Guilt has unpleasantly stormed all over my senses. I cannot help but blame myself for the grief I have caused Jimmy. He did not expect that I save him, but neither did he want to feel helpless about his own affairs as well. Instead of keeping him alive, I've turned him into a phantom.

Sybil was looking at me, beginning to understand the situation a little clearer. Her face was sympathetic to what I was feeling.

"You should visit him tonight, then?" She asked earnestly.

I wiped the tears from my face.

"You," I stopped, my emotions from curtailing my desire to engage in conversation. "You knew all along didn't you? About us?"

She didn't budge from her current position, still standing beside her father. "With what just happened, I see no requirement to recount so deep into the past. I did not even have to hazard a suspicion." She waited for me to dry my face.

"Your emotions radiate more than you think they should."

I sighed, breathing relief. "I suppose so. Thank you for understanding and more importantly, for not showing any disgust."

"When you love, other circumstances tend to be a little less important than how they ought to have." Her smile was followed with a heavy sigh.

I managed to return the good gesture. "I'll visit him tonight, then."

We looked at Carson again, this time comically. If he only knew that that something as dramatic as this was happening in his presence, he would have been incensed. And any abrasive scolding coming from him is uncalled for. I think his lordship would agree to that.

The rest of luncheon passed by without considerable drama. Sybil and I talked about Branson, how much a man he's made of himself and proven to Lord Grantham. On a lighter note, we also discussed our preferences in food, and even in men.

We decided to part ways again, and leave ourselves to our affairs.

"Let us rendezvous tomorrow, at the same time, here?" She raised politely.

I nodded to affirm.

The rest of the afternoon is to commence with the polishing of whatever silver Carson feels are dirt-ridden. It was Alfred's half-day, so the herculean task was all left to Jimmy. He sat down at the servant's table and began. He was unwaveringly addressed to the spoons that he didn't notice Anna sit beside him. I was just standing in the corner, back pressed on the wall.

"How are you, Jimmy?" Anna began.

Jimmy looked at him quizzically, yet this time his eyes were different, and anxiously so. "Quite fine, I suppose. Why do you ask, Anna?"

"Nothing. It's just that," she checked to see if anyone else was around. "… well, if you need someone to talk to, I am all ears."

The boy did not seem to discern her reply at first, as he continued with his task until he placed one of the spoons on the table.

"I don't understand it all, really." His gaze was fixed at the silver.

Anna kept quiet, albeit intently. She was waiting for Jimmy to continue his sentence to gauge her reaction.

"This bloody sympathy. People are too concerned about me." This time he was giving a commanding look at Anna, and even managed a grin. "The kind much closer than how a normal, professional colleague should receive. It's not as if anything exceptional happened between me and Mr. Barrow."

I was a few feet away from Anna but I could see how laden with distraught she was at the boy's reaction. "Jimmy," her gaze turning from concerned to austere. "He died protecting you."

This time Jimmy leaned towards Anna, the former's elbows pressed against the table to minimize the distance between them. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I froze.

"In the instance of stalking me, to which I am not guilty of, perhaps those thieves have found a better target to beat out." His eyes were precise, and garishly convincing, of his explanation. For a moment, I could have sworn they turned pitch black.

Anna became hawkish. "You don't mean what you say, Jimmy."

Yet Jimmy was not one to avoid the confrontation. "It could have been anyone, Anna. It can only be too bad that it happened to Mr. Barrow." He replied coolly, not losing possession of his calm.

"He followed you because he cared for you!" Anna was shouting now. "If he didn't, I can't possibly imagine what state you might be in right now!"

I have to agree. I don't get it at all. Last night he was completely in shambles, now he completely morphed into a black, heartless man. It was nearly impossible to figure him out. I am thankful for Anna who seemed to echo my thoughts, even if it was executed pugnaciously.

He began to speak again. "That's what he gets for attempting to –"

Anna did not let him finish. She lost her sublime amount of patience and slapped him. Both were in shock for what just happened, but there was no room to recover upon the entry of a wry voice from behind.

"Stop it this instant." O'Brien.

She entered the scene and looked very harshly at Anna. "You will apologize to Jimmy this instant." Her tone did not sound sympathetic at all. It was menacing.

Anna looked at Jimmy, who was still reeling from the pain in his cheek. "I'm sorry, Jimmy." She motioned to leave.

But before she completely exit the room, she looked at Jimmy for the last time. "But now that I have apologized, perhaps you might take time to think about what you said. Thomas, wherever he may be, deserves more than what you just said." She stormed out the room, hoping that her words would leave him with an implacable effect.

Although I cannot thank Anna enough for how she stood for me today, I am also faced with the bitter revelation of what I had just seen and heard.

O'Brien sat beside Jimmy, "are you alright?"

She did not wait for Jimmy to answer, only proving that she did not care for the boy at all. "Don't worry lad. You did not deserve the berating you got from that woman." Her sinister eyes assured Jimmy that the statements that he told Anna were the right things to say.

"Things happen for a reason. Mr. Barrow was entitled to the consequences of his actions." I am of the opinion that she was not even intending to disguise her happiness with a more sorrowful sentiment.

She smiled, half-sympathetic, half-mocking. Yet her vile character is uncompromising.

I did not wait for another word to come out of either of their mouths, so I stormed my way out of the door leading outside which, thank heavens, was open.

I was in utter disbelief of the tangle indignities I had just heard. Does he not really give a damn? Here I was in my usual smoking spot, finding myself in tears for the second time today. I did not have Sybil to comfort me.

Did I do it all for naught? Am I to be misinterpreted ever so callously even in my last act – one of the few ones I consider as valiant? To the person I cared for the most, I was forever tarnished as a man of macabre vindication. I am not to be given any benefit of concern. Everything I did was for my personal gain.

Have I really distanced myself too far from his good graces? I was only trying to be protective of him, is that not supposed to be normal? His doubts have cast an opaque shield of rejection to disassociate himself from any chance I may have had for reconciliation. I am shattered to a million shards of glass, each of which pricks any person who attempts to rebuild me.

The worst irony of life is that those who you don't care for are the ones who do while the ones that you do, don't.

I noticed footsteps. I shared this spot with who could possibly the most heartless person of all. O'Brien seemed to be in a good mood when she sat beside me. I trust that her conversation inside with Jimmy was a success.

"Your pride will someday humiliate you," I hissed.

I wanted to massacre the scalawag to pieces.

To rid myself of any untoward intention of slaughter, I left O'Brien to regain my control. I circled Downton Abbey for a few times to tire myself out only to remember that spirits like me have the inability to feel physical fatigue.

The skies have begun to assume a darker hue and the wind was blistering through my clothes. I took the unwelcome change in weather as a signal to come back in.

It was almost the end of dinner when I came back in. I decided to skip the servants' conversation and proceeded to Jimmy's room. I sat in the visitor's chair to wait for him.

After an hour, Jimmy entered inside. He obviously looked exhausted with the day's work. His eyes were drooping and his hair slightly unkempt. Apart from the vast silver he had to clean, no replacement has been made for me yet, so I assume Carson has heaved them with extra work.

He began to remove his livery and changed into his pyjamas. He brushed his teeth, washed his face and finally proceeded to lie in his bed.

He did not sleep yet, though. He stared blankly at the ceiling for a few minutes, lost in thought. He wasn't blinking, he wasn't moving about. Tired as he may be, he was as stiff as he was earlier during lunch.

"Perhaps you would want to apologize to me?" I said out loud, even though I am absolutely certain he won't hear me.

I looked at him, this time peculiarly. Underneath his impassive demeanor, I could swear that I can sense something else, something that is more genuine than his cold stare. I tried to justify this with my augmented sensitivity to emotion, yet I immediately debunked it with the actual words and actions I witnessed earlier.

I sat in the bed and leaned towards him, close enough to hear his faint heartbeat. I edged higher so that I can see his face. Yet this time, his eyes were becoming blue again – the innocent shade of blue that I knew. These weren't the ones that Anna noticed, nor the ones he showed to O'Brien. It was his very own.

He snuffled a bit. A tear rolled down his face.

A tear which paved the way for a million more.

The sight gave me a whirlwind feeling of anger and pity. I felt some relief that there might be hope that what he told Anna might not totally be true, yet with the endless barricades that he has managed to built to safeguard from any form of scrutiny, I might be batting at the wrong assumption again. I wanted to purge him of his worries, yet I have no idea how. Either way, I am certain that he was a frightened child.

Jimmy might be confusing everyone with his contradictions, but none of that compares to the sense of disarray he has placed upon himself. The weeping died down after a few minutes. It could only mean that Jimmy had finally fallen asleep. I began to place my hand in his forehead, as Sybil instructed. Not too hard to pass through him, but not too light to be unsecure at any movement he might make.

As expected, I felt the unfamiliar sensation growing inside me. I began to sweat and shiver and my vision was slowly turning to an absolute white.

I was beginning to enter Jimmy's dream.

**A/N: Sorry for the late update. I apologize in advance for this is quite a long chapter full of crafting the foundations of most of the story. R&R!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry it took me quite a while before introducing Jimmy's first dream. Please R/R! Thank you for all the positive feedback!**

* * *

The dizzying sensation, as Sybil described, was a torture of the spirit. I felt weightless on a suspended state void of gravity. The white vision was contaminated with different hues of the same shade, a bit darker when I felt cold, and a bit lighter when I felt hot.

My previous belief of the dead having inabilities to feel is gravely corrected. We are as much alive as others are in suffering from pain, and as fruitless in coping with it.

I shut my eyes for a few seconds, taking comfort in the vision of temporary darkness. Before opening them, I composed myself to prepare for an excruciating emptiness of white. This time, however, the colorless pigment was replaced with different, hazy colors. I was beginning to feel some form of ease, slowly coming into terms with Jimmy's reality. The extreme shifts and temperature were slowly gaining bearable equilibrium and my sight progressively began to make out the surroundings.

There was a tinge of blue on the horizon and vast waves of green under it. Between the navy skyline was spots of white that were pacing slowly. It did not take me long to recognize that I was in a field. Grass weaved itself inside and out of the land, while wild flowers were abloom in between. It was so plenteous that I began to feel a bit itchy from the green blades that grazed through me. The breeze, cruising gently in the atmosphere, brought with it the faint whiff of the pink, yellow, and velvet blossoms. The sun was not too harsh, spreading just the tender amount of heat and light that did not warrant the need of any umbrella (if there was one around here).

It seemed like a very lovely afternoon, indeed.

In the middle of the field was a huge tree, the first of its kind I've seen. Its branches were as outstretched, upward and sideward, as its trunk was colossal in girth. The leaves resembled that of a maple's. Compared to any leaf I have set my sights on, they were astoundingly green. Quite unbelievably so, that they radiated an emerald beam when the sun's rays came into contact with them.

Underneath the lobed foliage were red, star-shaped flowers. It was quite interesting to note that they were barely noticeable, shying away from the warmth of sunlight. They were of a very dark shade, almost that of blood, in stark contrast with the exuberant wreath that hid them.

As to the tree's name, since this is obviously a fictional one, I should like to call it the bloody emerald. _A nice ring, isn't it?_

I looked a little farther down and then I noticed a medium-built figure approaching. I took it as a man since he was wearing a loose white shirt with suspenders, regular trousers, and a cap. He sat beside the trunk under the cover of the tree.

He took off his cap, and I began to notice the boy's features. The sunlight that snaked through the extremely thick leafage made conspicuous his golden, blonde locks. He had a soft, pointed nose and amply filled lips.

It was unmistakably Jimmy.

Once I have assured myself that it was indeed him, I decided to call him out.

"Oy –"

I shuddered.

I tried to call him out again. And again. And again.

Yet for some reason, which I am positive is frowned upon by the gods of semantics and semiotics, I cannot utter his name.

I heard barks instead.

My sight looked less far and more near to my immediate surroundings. The grass was barely a few inches below me. I have considerably shrunk down, and my posture was less upright and more parallel with the ground. Paws, four of them, touched the soft ground. The breeze puffed through all of my body, instigating the idea that I was naked, only covered in white fur.

I was a dog. In great regard to my unappealing height, I may still technically be a puppy.

Judging from the way I brilliantly described my surroundings, I made a mental note that I, once again, debunked a known supposition of dogs being colourblind.

Am I to be assuaged that this, an aloof canine, is my repressed self-representation? I could have been a powerful, fire-breathing dragon, or even a mighty lion lording its commanding mane over the meadows.

Perhaps even a cat? Anything but a dog.

_Well, every first time is supposed to be memorable_. I can only console myself.

Not to be eclipsed with this unexpected setback, I walked – no – galloped towards Jimmy. It would be more natural if a bark a few times every now and then so that he wouldn't notice I'm human, so bark I did. I suppose the woofs were too loud since he noticed me straight away.

As I entered the shade of the bloody emerald, I sat on all fours (I amuse myself) and looked straight at Jimmy in the eye.

"Come here, you." He smiled at me playfully, pouring good intentions in each word.

I wagged my tail and tongue at his behest and proceeded to coyly walk towards him.

He scuffed lightly behind my ears that I involuntarily closed my eyes in pleasure. Then he began to glide his hand routinely around my furry back. It pleased both my rascal senses to be frisked such an elated manner, and my human brain to be touched by none other than Mr. Kent. I wanted to absorb the sensation for future reminiscing.

Suddenly, he turned me over to my back, leaving my underbelly exposed. If puppies like me could blush, my fur would have already been tinted pink. His soft hands began to tickle my vulnerable side, which left me in such an improbably ecstatic and almost aroused feeling that I immediately barked and jumped back to the ground.

If he were to do these things with my human version, my dignity would be completely ruined with naked humiliation.

He began to reach out his hand, "a spry one, you are!," with luminescent blue eyes channeling the enthusiasm of a child.

I closed the distance between us again so that I could be near enough his fingers. Seeing his winsome smile, the one that caught my attention the first time he entered the halls of Downton, I did the one thing that I have always been hesitant to do. I bit him.

Ever so playfully.

"Ow!" he screamed.

For a boy who exerts a monumental amount of effort to portray a man, that screech shall not benefit him in any way. Still, I was pretty sure that he was not absolutely enraged with what I just did.

I did the doggish equivalent of laughing, which was to bark around and chase my tail.

This time, he did not invite me to come near him. He took his both hands and lifted me off the ground, placed me on his crossed legs, and began to cradle me.

My front paws softly clawed to his chest so that I could bring myself up to his face. I was still panting heavily from the hideous activity I did. He just looked at me and gave a wide grin. Above, the leaves whispered adequate light between our faces.

This Jimmy that I have loved is still a boy. Underneath that convincingly ornate livery, he has an innocent soul pillaged by the absence of guidance and care. Having lost both parents and at early age, it must have been of supreme difficultly to make his way about life. He would have to account full responsibility for his actions and their consequences. Sometimes, that unwelcome function and the lack of duty towards it trigger immeasurable fear, stabbing thorns to his insides.

It is my observation that, apart from his possible distaste in men, his explosive reaction to our suspenseful kiss may have also ensued from this anxiety.

I looked at his face again rested mine on his chest, with my paws still clutching at his shirt.

Yet he is still a boy, longing for countless, if not a perpetual, springtime. I recognize the steadfast yearning for a life free from folly and trouble. Even if in his own stupor, he may essay his luck in a world where he, and only he, is king.

I felt him shift his position.

Next, a scream.

He threw me out of his cradle and heavily into the ground. I barked defensively at the shock.

I looked at him again, and, in fear, I saw the light in his eyes go out – the same dark enmity that punctured Anna and Mrs. Hughes.

Frantically, he stood up. I was still barking which, if translated, asked desperately for an explanation. He then plodded outside the relief of the bloody emerald, and once the sunlight completely enveloped his body, he sprinted.

I darted towards him, wanting to retain the proximity between the two of us. Still, he seemed to run faster than I did.

The dance of the wind and the grass, each little leaf thwacking each other, created a fizzled sound which chorused with my cries for Jimmy to stop down. However, as the distance between us and the bloody emerald widened, the whistle grew to resemble something more baleful. They were slowly turning into hisses. I looked down at the grass, with my fear becoming farther from being dispelled. In true dreamlike fashion, each sprout was slowly morphing into a snake.

An ominous illustration greeted my eyes. The blue picturesque sky was eerily accompanied with a turbulent expanse of green serpents below.

My paws accelerated with all the possible speed. Jimmy was still a considerable distance ahead of me, and I was of the belief that he was unaware of the distressing transformation around.

I barked in anguish, like an escaping bandit. Even when I'm not human, my feral instincts were still protective of Jimmy. Soon, my barks were mixed with tears, if it is even within the bounds of reason that dogs could cry. I yapped while I ran, for it was unfortunately the only logical thing I could think of.

In dire need to catch my breath, I stopped and brusquely gave the largest cry that I could.

Only this time, it was deeper, and larger in volume. It was more of a howl. I looked at my paws, and, to my surprise, noticed that they have evolved to larger versions. I was now a great many inches above ground, and my periphery could capture a more comprehensive panorama. My fur has also assumed a black color.

If I knew any better, I had become a wolf.

I did not have the time to satisfy myself with the helpful transformation since Jimmy was now even farther from me. I gave a dangerously loud howl that hardened to a resolve, and bolted towards him.

To my benefit, each step covered more distance. My pace was also faster than Jimmy's, so I was confident that I could reach him in no time.

I was only a few meters away from him when I sensed a writhing figure to his right. It was fast approaching him and was hissing ever so loudly.

It was an enormous green snake with eyes dancing with a sly shade of silver. Bigger than its smaller, quashable counterparts, it had no concern for the latter at all since the large serpent maleficently crushed them in order to thrash nearer its target – Jimmy.

I howled again at Jimmy, signaling him to veer away.

The snake was now angling its head to puncture Jimmy. Its tongue was freely moving along the wind, possibly to wet its appetite for the impending blood and flesh.

Yet the boy, unaware, was still running.

I decided to take matters into my own hands (paws), and charged as fast as heaven allowed. Jimmy was still running. The snake was ready to strike. The distance was perilously narrowing. This bloody dream was beginning to get drastically real. With one final bellow, I jumped at the serpent just as it was about to prick Jimmy, not caring if whether I would bite its head first, or it would sink its teeth into me instead.

I would take either, if it were only to rescue this young man who happened to be running away from me.

The climax happened, penetrated afterwards with a tense silence.

The grass was normal again – verdant and peaceful. Its dance with the wind resumed. Above, the sky was saturated with sapphire. The clouds moved gracefully, ignorant of the dreadful occurrence beneath it.

I couldn't stand. The excruciating sting of the serpent was slowly corroding into my system. Each breath was laboriously harder than the last. The sunlight was beginning to burn, which prompted me to put out my tongue as completely as I can to gasp for air and relief.

Yet I was content when I saw Jimmy standing, alive and intact. Staring at my condition, he looked confused, eyebrows twitched against each other. His hands were trembling on the sides and I could observe that he was trying to hide the want to inhale deeply from running too ludicrously far.

One foot in front of the other, he walked nearer to me.

When we were close enough, he crouched. He was glaring at me, the dying wolf.

His head was twisted in an inquisitive angle. Then he asked, "what did you do that for?"

I wanted to favor him with an answer, never minding if it was a question of sorrow or of shame. Yet this time, my body was already stretched in such an intense pain that I failed to conjure a decorous explanation in my mind.

The next thing he did, however, worked me up again to complete upset.

Loosening his arms, he stood up.

He kicked my underbelly.

I howled in a whimpered volume disproportionate to the agony that accelerated the repercussions of the venom. It could have been louder if I had more strength. With one last tainted glance, he walked away. I do not understand this at all. After all that I have done, he still willed for my death My heart was being slaughtered from the outside going in. I had been engulfed in bliss of the warmth of the sun before I was completely swamped in the flares.

The discomfort was becoming immensely unbearable, and everything dissolved to white again. I could feel the same sensation that I had when I went inside Jimmy's dream.

"Jimmy –" a new voice entered the picture. "Jimmy, wake up!"

I was back in his room, seated at the edge of his bed.

Alfred was waking him up.

Jimmy furrowed at the sight of another footman before him. "Alfred, it's not even 5 o'clock –"

"Mr. Carson said that we are to dress immediately." He cut in. "Lady Mary is about to give birth. We need to prepare."

With one final sigh, he got up and proceeded to prepare for the possibly looming day ahead.

I just sat there in his bed, petrified at how empty my thoughts were.

This boy is totally impossible to figure out.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thank you for all the reviews, keep them coming!**

* * *

Once fully and properly clothed, Jimmy proceeded outside. I trailed his echoed footsteps when he left the room.

In this reality, I did not feel any pain from the venom yet my mind was still wrecked, perhaps more from the cornucopia of Jimmy's pompous misgivings than anything.

I climbed up the stairs to a lobby bustling with servants. Lady Mary was already rushed to the hospital, her father not wanting to bear the peril of having childbirth in the four corners of his house again.

"Anna, have you got all you need?" Carson was brisking back and forth, throwing commands at every servant that comes to proximate contact with him.

Anna was coming from Lady Mary's room upstairs, with a handful of clean clothes on her right hand and a velvet bag on her left. "Yes, Mr. Carson. Lady Edith already brought a few clothes when she accompanied Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew to the hospital." She did not look at him and went straight to the door. "I'll bring this to the car!" Her voice reverberated in the distance between them.

I gathered from their conversation that Lady Mary was already in the hospital with her sister and husband.

Granting the early time of day, the lobby was not completely peeked with daylight. The air was quite frigid on the inside, only heated by the friction and movement brought about by the frantic commotion Carson was having.

Yet by being the butler, he was able to veil it as a matter of duty.

"I wish you'd just stop putting much ado about it," Mrs. Hughes sneaked from the drawing room.

Carson simply glared at him, with both hands on his sides. "Much precaution has to be taken, Mrs. Hughes, especially if we are to assure a safe delivery of Lady Mary's baby."

Mrs. Hughes turned her back to profess a most meaningful eye roll. Lady Mary is obviously the butler's favorite of all the Crawley sisters, sometimes letting this predilection overtake his well-known sense of judgment.

Footsteps were coming down the stairs, it was Lord Grantham's.

"Carson, if you would please ask O'Brien to bring her ladyship's black coat to the car. She shall be down in a few minutes," he politely commanded.

Carson merely bowed, "very good, my lord. Shall there be anything else?"

Robert Crawley crooked his eyebrows, which were rifling through for any last arrangements.

"Everyone shall be by the side of Lady Mary except for Branson. He shall take charge of the house while we are gone. You will kindly serve him breakfast at around seven."

Anna piquantly called out from outside, "Mr. Carson, the engine's ready!"

Her sight swept a little to the right and found Lord Grantham beside the butler. She immediately gave a slight and stunned bow that both acknowledged his presence and apologize for talking above the reserved volume that the house permits.

"That would be all, Carson. I take it that the house shall remain in good hands under your watchful eye." The elder Crawley turned towards the direction of the door and made his way outside.

I could sense Carson cringing on his insides. The highest ranking arbiter of proper behaviour wanted to be beside, or at least within the immediate area of Lady Mary whilst she gave birth. His eyes were not as commanding as they usually are. Today, they harrowed concern.

The most abysmal aspect of his situation would be his inability to express it freely. His responsibilities and position forbade him to tolerate his non-professional sentiments.

A few moments after, Lady Cora descended the stairs and left with her husband.

Once the remaining Crawleys were carried away from Downton, the bustle began to subside and was eventually replaced with the normal pace of activities.

I went to the drawing room and sat at the red chair of Lord Grantham. It was pliantly cushioned for long amounts of comfort. _No wonder his lordship prefers this so much over the couch._

After lingering alone for about an hour or so, Jimmy entered the room to neat out the humongous pile of paper and parcel from his lordship's wooden table. I assumed that he was instructed by Carson do so as no one is normally permitted to array the top contents of the gold-encrusted furniture.

He was stacking the papers and segregating them from the small telegrams when a tall yet undeniably lanky figure entered the room.

"Oy Jimmy," it was Alfred.

The blonde boy did not whisk to confirm his identity, and proceeded to continue with his tasks at hand.

Alfred drew nearer, wanting to hush his tone for what he was about to say afterward. "I need a favor from you."

"And what makes you think I am saintly enough to grant you that?" Jimmy eyes refused to leave their place.

"Well, I –" Alfred pressed his hands together. "I need you to take Isis out for a walk for me."

This time, Jimmy turned around to face his larger counterpart. Before he could express his protest, Alfred interrupted him again.

"You see, I kind of forgot Mr. Carson's instructions to polish the silver to be used for dinner tonight. They were to be finished a few days ago." His fingers were pressingly themselves more vigorously. "And now I have to walk Isis. I cannot do them both, me hands are full!"

Jimmy shot him a contemptuous look. The sun reaching from the windows threw light on his sharp feature. The ample illumination manifested his disapproving expression.

"Nitwit," was all he could mutter.

I almost laughed.

Alfred looked around to see if anyone was listening. "Come on Jimmy! You've had your share of inconveniences before," his tone was pleading, "and besides, you love dogs!"

_Except in dreams,_ I mentally grumbled.

"Well, I thought so too," Jimmy's voice was as crisp as air.

Jimmy broke his stare with Alfred and proceeded to continue arranging his lordship's papers. "I apologize, Alfred. I simply cannot."

Alfred then whimpered, seeing as any further bid for Mr. Kent's good graces was futile. He began to make his way towards the door.

Before he did, however, Jimmy gave a loud and obnoxious sigh. "Oh alright, just this once."

Alfred's eyes jumped with heavenly joy, and he gave a wide grin. "Aye! I promise things of this lot won't happen again!" He almost jumped for joy as he finally made his way out the door.

Jimmy brooded a stare that signaled Alfred to finally dismiss his irrelevance at the golden boy's presence. If I didn't knew any better, Alfred was the pooch, and Isis was the human being.

I figured that Jimmy's filing of papers were not of much amusement to me so I left the room and proceeded to the lobby. Just in time, Branson was making his way down the stairs for breakfast.

I almost bowed to greet him, but reminded myself that I was dead.

Lady Sybil was behind him.

"I trust you've had a good night?" I opened up a conversation.

She was looking at me as she was walking down. "You cannot possibly mean that."

We were finally on the same platform, when she burst out in tears.

"Oh Thomas, it was brutal!"

I could only give her an assuring hug to quell the menace that was sewn in her voice. We walked to the drawing room, without the sight of Jimmy, and sat on the couch.

I was still clutching her hand. "Now, will you tell me what happened?"

She waited for the waterfall in her eyes to recede so that she could compose herself.

"For my fourth dream, I did not visit Sybil." She painfully looked at me in the eye, "I went inside Tom's thoughts."

"It was the perfect evening, and we were snuggled inside our room. From the window, the sky was embellished with a hypnotic moon and lustrous stars dancing to the tune of the breeze." Her voice narrated each word with vivid description.

"The moonlight aided what few candles we had in the room to make visible everything inside – from the bed, to the chairs, to the carpets."

She let go of my hand, and stood up.

"I thought it was charming for him to be engulfed in such an amorous mood. The mood was drawing the two of us together and I was clearly powerless to escape the situation."

"I don't see why such a beguiling temptation caused you misery, Sybil," I directed.

"We were kissing passionately on the bed. It felt wonderful to feel that again. To feel Branson again. My back was resting against the wall while he was gently -," she paused for a while to clear a growing lump in her throat.

"In this dream, Thomas. I could see through a mirror, since I was human."

She sat down beside me again and held my hand. I was beginning to feel unease from the enmeshed information feeding itself into my brain.

"While he was fondling me, I gazed at myself from the huge mirror across our bed."

This time, she stopped. She wanted to throw the building liquid in her eyes to oblivion. Then an unpremeditated anger slowly possessed her. Her fingers stopped trembling and she stiffened in posture. The blank eyes peeked at me, entrancing the distance between us with her olive gaze.

"I was another woman."

It has always been said that the most tamed are likewise the most violent. I concurred to that, witnessing Sybil, possibly be the most gentle soul in this household, transform herself morbidly from all the uncultivated anger.

I wanted to calm her down. "What happened, then?"

"The dream ended," came her swift reply.

I prayed badly for a supervening event to distract her trail of anguish. I was never accustomed to situations of this lot, nor shall I ever be, even in death.

Thankfully, the telephone rang.

I moved slightly away from her, almost planning a signal to stand. I wanted to comfort Sybil, yet I wanted to be apart from her as well to ponder what consolation to offer.

"Perhaps you can see what the ring is about." Her words, more of a command than a suggestion, contained that unmistakable jurisdiction of aristocracy. It was not an explicit attribute, yet Lady Sybil meticulously performed it.

And as a trained under butler, I discharged myself.

The telephone conversation had ended when I reached the lobby. Carson was making his speedy traverse across the hall into the dining room.

Once inside, he faced Branson. "I apologize for interrupting your luncheon, sir, but I would like to announce the birth of Lady Mary to a healthy baby boy."

Branson almost spilt the wine he was drinking. He gave a smile chorused with a sigh of relief afterwards.

"That's splendid, Carson! I'll go to the hospital right away!" With that, he proceeded to stand, which the butler immediately took as a sign that the former chauffer will not finish his meal.

"I was told, sir," Carson was clearly trying to clear any stain of disrespect in his voice, "that you are to remain in the house until the family gets back."

Branson did not seem to care. He immediately placed his napkin on the chair and proceeded to exit the room. "They wouldn't know it."

Carson forced a gruff sigh, perhaps a bit loud that Branson overheard it.

The blonde man turned around. "I hope you don't mind, but this is the first time I'm seeing birth that's not accompanied with death."

As much uneducated as he seems, Branson's statement bequeathed a refined integrity of a man who has been through a lot. There was a still moment that ensued after Tom's statement that even Carson had to concede.

"Very well, sir," came an curt reply from the butler.

Branson proceeded near the main entrance of the door, mumbling loudly to himself.

"Now where is my coat –"

"Oh here it is, sir," a female voice approached from behind. It was Edna, the new housemaid.

I never noticed

She handed the black, thick coat to Branson, who gave a smile in return. "Can you call the chauffeur to bring the car up the main door? I would like to drive there myself."

"Yes, sir. I'll be off now." The maid eyed Branson with a smarting accent before completely turning her back, proceeding to the door that led downstairs.

A few minutes later, the car stopped by the entrance. Branson opened the door and was off at once.

Again, the house hubbubs of the house proceeded to its normal level. I proceeded to make my way to the drawing room to Lady Sybil, who was still sitting on the couch.

"Your sister has given birth to a healthy boy." I circled the red couches and sat at the one in front of her.

She did not answer.

Her hands, clasped properly as a lady would, were placed on her hips. She was mindlessly gazing at the direction of the window. The faint breeze from outside the room did not persuade her to change her posture; on the contrary, it gestured her to remain still. From afar, she was in perfect unison with the lifeless furniture of yore. Like a brazened statue – dignified and stern.

"Tom is on the way to the hospital right now," I tried to pierce my gaze through. "I thought you should know."

Still, naught.

"Look, I fully understand how a dream can be as truthful as life. I daresay it's even more verisimilar – a thousandfold – when the emotion centers on pain." I tried to recount my experiences in Jimmy's dream and mutate them to well meant counsel.

"I don't know if there is any truth behind our experiences inside their minds, but I cannot look at you with conviction and tell you that they are real, either. There is a massive space of possibilities for interpretation."

Her gaze shifted from nothingness to me.

"It was Edna, you know."

I kept still as my mind juggled the fresh image of Edna who handed Branson his coat.

"The housemaid?" As if I did not know the answer. My ignorance stumbled at my nonchalant tone.

Her face twitched at the word, inflicting more vexation into her features. "He was kissing her, and how happily so. Not me."

Surely Tom wouldn't be so primal as to stoop down an inglorious act? He already had the life, to which many odds were against, that only a million of us could dream of. By virtue of his romance with Lady Sybil, he securely ascended up the social ladder. Though it can be acknowledged that a breakneck turn in lifestyle may have unwanted effects, I am most certain that philandering is perpetually precluded from any of those possibilities.

And most importantly, he stands as a father to Sybil's last memory.

As if by another divine intervention, another commotion came from outside before I could reply.

There was shouting.

A faint "help!" was heard.

This time, Sybil grew alarmed too. She stood up and angled her face to improve perception of sound.

"Help! Help!" Cries were mixed with desperation and pain, and the chants were beginning to fill the halls of Downton.

Sybil and I went outside the drawing room. We walked in opposite directions, trying to figure out where the sound came from. When we shook our heads after visiting both the dining room and the waiting area, our eyes, together, set gaze at the door leading downstairs. The sounds were coming from down there.

I gave Sybil a worried look.

_Please be careful Jimmy_, I thought. Possibilities, particularly those coursing towards untoward incidents, were already haunting in my mind.

I hope it's just some mishap in the kitchen. Or Alfred being a dense bloke.

The chants were dreadfully becoming louder and nearer. Whoever it was, it was going to the hallway.

The strange thing was, no one from upstairs or downstairs seemed to be noticing the cries.

To our surprise, we saw a bloodied man arrive, dressed in a coat, panting for breath. His hair was tousled. Half of his pallid-toned face was drenched in red. Both his arms were pressed against the wall, possibly due to exhaustion.

_But from what?_

It only took me one gaze into those mystifyingly blue eyes before my own widened in shock. I covered my left hand in my mouth to prevent it from saying anything. Fear was gripping me in all its might.

Sybil seemed to be experiencing the same amount of trauma. My periphery told me that she was trembling at the view. I lent my available arm, to which she clung so despairingly.

The bloodied man was Matthew Crawley.

He gazed around for one more look at the lobby before he stopped his sight at where I and Sybil were. The two of us looked like escaped thieves. We were frozen. No amount of prudence could prepare us for what happened next for it was beyond anguished comprehension.

Narrowed his blue eyes, his mouth began to syllabize, "Thomas? Sybil? What are you –"

A loud thump was heard as he collapsed on the floor.

I looked at Sybil. She knew what I was about to say. I hoped for the opposite, but reality was never to show a profound concern in this curious irony.

Matthew Crawley was dead.


	8. Chapter 8

A loud thump, like a fallen tree, was heard. Matthew Crawley collapsed on the floor.

I looked at Sybil. She knew what I was about to say. I absurdly hoped for the opposite, but reality lacked a brunt of profound concern in this curious irony. Sybil and I placed a collapsed Matthew on the sofa in the drawing room. His coat was melodiously drenched in red, as were his hands.

"Don't worry, he'll come to his senses soon," Sybil nonchalantly said.

I parted the broken, yellow streaks of hair that covered his face, which was also covered in blood. "What makes you say that?"

She gave me a bizarre look, "he can't be more dead, can he?"

Sybil has a point. I looked back at the bruised image of Matthew Crawley cushioned on the sofa. I felt the same wave of concern when I saw his countenance, affronted with damage, at Downton, when it was turned into a hospital, during the war.

"What do you suppose happened?" Though I pretty much had an idea already.

Sybil refused to answer. I don't think she even noticed. Instead, she stood towards the doorway and made her way out the room. My presumptions dictate that she still was in no mood for prattle, especially with no less that another addition to the death toll of this great house, granting what happened with her philandering husband.

I did not bother to chase her, seeing as it was pointless. The consequence of such was, of course, the solitude between the deceased heir and me.

Taking care of Matthew reminded me of our experience in the war. "Back to the barricades, eh?" I continued to spiritedly wipe the dirt off his face and clothes, not minding that my actions were all too intimate and detestable to the eyes of many. Who would bother, anyway? Death has cleansed many with the vice of prejudice. Additionally, I only ever felt an estranged amity towards Mr. Crawley, nothing more.

Matthew let out a large cough. He then opened his eyes.

"What am I – Thomas? – What on earth?" Each startled word was inserted with vehement coughing. Yet, the thousand shards of confusion in his pacific eyes never felt so clear.

I gave him a pat on the back, to which he did not object. "Welcome to the afterlife."

"God be damned," his eyes opened aghast, almost dropping to the floor. I could sense that he wished that everything is just clothed in fiction, and that fact shall resume operations soon.

A situation like this is never guaranteed a manual. It was never the subject of contemplation, since nobody from the waking state knew that it exists. "It would be wise to suspend your disbelief at the sight of me, sir."

Matthew grew pale and silent, as expected, and seered his sight on the China jar in front of him. Had he been able to set fire to anything he gazed, I was confident the jar would be in shambles. His jaw slacked, half-open. The magnanimity of things has yet to garner consciousness in his thoughts. The room was struggling to provide comfort to the quivers in his hands and the convulsion brimming in his eyes.

I sat at the opposite chair and gave him a sympathetic look. He doesn't need to be rushed with all of this; his death has to sink in gradually as liquid, not injected coldly as steel.

"I saw him, you know." He attempted to channel some jovial comfort. I crossed my eyes in wonder.

He was quick to enlighten, "my son – George."

His facial expressions still freighted an unnoticeable yearning, but that was quick to change. Noticing his outfit was too scruffy for a Crawley, he began to clean himself from where I took off. "His face details so much of Mary's traits."

"And so shall his character with your qualities. I am sure, sir." I made sure to add more conviction to my words.

He began to stand up and drew nearer to me. "Am I really to believe that I'm dead?"

A smile of levity was all I could manage.

"Crikey," came his answer.

If there were anything exemplary about Matthew Crawley, it would be his undying ability to conquer any corpulent situation into one less demanding of drama and more inviting for hope. He had a way of maneuvering people to capitulate to his good graces. This goes unparalleled by Tom, his Lordship, and even me. I suppose it's largely in part of his training as a lawyer.

Footsteps entered the room, followed by a female voice.

"I see you've awakened, brother."

Once Matthew saw the sight of Sybil, he darted towards her direction and embraced her. "How you are missed, dear."

A benign feeling lulled through me as I saw the twilight reunion of their family. Yet, I felt regret too, in the absence of mine.

"I never thought we'd see each other again. In this state, at least." Sybil was clasping her hand in Matthew's cheek like a vine grasping its branch. "But how I have yearned for this!" Her previous state of somber has been alleviated by the sight of her brother-in-law.

"Be careful what you wish for," Matthew chuckled.

I gave a bashful laugh. Perhaps a bit too audible, since they noticed.

Sybil motioned for me to come nearer, "Thomas has been keeping me company."

"Ah," Matthew paused. "And I trust everything is still in order?"

I straightened my posture. "Very much still, sir. Mr. Carson would be pleased."

They giggled. If I did not know any better, we would have passed off as friends in a pub. Equals, even.

"There is so much to talk about," Matthew steered the conversation's direction again.

With this, Lady Sybil strode away from him, and nearer the door. Her steps were scant and marked with hesitation. They echoed the uncertainty of the words that followed. "Perhaps we should start with this."

Matthew and I followed her lead. Our steps were quick, hoping that our suspicion of malady would be dispelled.

Outside the drawing room, Robert, Cora, Violet, Edith, and Tom stood frozen. There was a cloud of disbelief hovering above. Anxiety veiled their faces. Cora and Edith were disappointingly unable to contain their sobs. Their gazes at different directions punctured the whole lobby with a funereal character not even Matthew's renowned skills could turn around.

It was his own indelible doing, after all.

"Mary doesn't know yet," Sybil said. "Your mother, too."

Matthew darted to the main entrance of Downton towards the deliverance of the fleeting horizon. Sybil and I ran after him.

The glare of the mid-afternoon sun proved no obstruction to Matthew. The white yet scorching rays guided him as he made his way further down the paved concrete to the gardens. Sybil and I tried to keep the distance as minimal as possible, but the former heir was apparently quite a sprinter.

"Matthew!" Sybil continued to plead, hoping that her appeal would make him stop. Another misnomer about death is that it unfortunately does not grant us infallibility over exhaustion.

But her prayers were answered, as Matthew halted. He was under a huge tree that sheltered a bench in its shade.

A few more meters and we were finally face to face. Sybil, obviously struggling from exhaustion, sat at the bench.

"There is always the state of denial, but one must not wallow in it too long. You still have to exist even if the world ceases you the opportunity to do it around people you love. We need to talk about that," she began. "It is never going to be easy, you know."

Matthew gave her a look of reproach, "Yes, perhaps, correct."

The sovereignty in his tone vanished, overshadowed by fear. "But I suggest you temporarily discontinue making things harder to comprehend."

Sybil's explaining, instead of helping Matthew, was doing the complete opposite. I sensed a brewing lash of words between the two, so I took a step away. Family matters were never my forte. A skirmish between those bound by blood, especially those beyond trite, should never be meddled with.

Sybil sensed the fragility enveloping Matthew. Despite our presence, Matthew's unease was far greater than ours when we first learned about our state. He was beginning to fall apart, dissimilar to his commanding demeanor in the drawing room.

This was Matthew Crawley – a man clothed with jurisdiction and authority in the house of Downton, yet outside its walls, he was pale, naked, and prone to terror.

His tears began to form a stream of loss. Sybil was about to retort, but I gave her a look. Her intentions fare beyond sincerity and well intent, but she needs to listen to what Matthew last said.

He needs to clear his mind, and a disquisition on life after death would make things more abstruse. The poor man obviously had an unforgiving whirlwind to bear with. In one run-in, he met his son, the dead sister and the dead butler, and then the grief of his family.

Sybil accepted my message, so instead, she led Matthew to sit beside her. No words came out of her mouth afterwards. Her stare only channeled concern.

Matthew buried his hands in his face.

"Please Sybil, let me cry."

I was a few meters away from him, but his tears made their presence felt, glistening in the light that seeped from above.

"Just let me cry."

**Matthew finally enters the picture. I terribly apologize for the late update. I will be more vigilant when exams are over! Please continue to review!**


	9. Chapter 9

Jimmy's room is uncomfortably cold. It is located at the far west side of the attic, ceaselessly distant from the sun's range. The surroundings did not aid in making the room any more pleasant. As a servant's room, it is thronged with bare colors, and the only furniture inside are the indispensable movables not built for lounging about.

Frighteningly like a stalker, I was watching Jimmy sleep. It is beyond my imagination to explain how he can go against the cold with only a few layers of blankets. Apart from a few shifts in position, his dormancy did not really beguile any amusement. He merely laid there in front of me, unassuming and fragile to any action. The silence in the room was disrupted by the ticking of his metronome.

I recalled the very same set of facts a few months ago. We were beset in this very situation. One which I took advantage of. A few months ago, I fervently hoped on the false enterprises of O'Brien. Worst, I gave in. With the tranquility of that brazen state, who wouldn't allude?

I know better now, but I am also aware that it is too late.

I have been staying in his room for the night. Matthew, Sybil, and I got back inside the house quite late. I initially decided to spend the night in mine, but it was firmly bolted.

_Perhaps to subdue any wicked memory of mine that might be trapped inside. _

I pondered on passing the night at the main lobby instead. However, whatever thought that arose was immediately put out when I realized that one of the doors to the far end of the room was still open.

By chance and circumstance, it was Jimmy's.

I saw no harm in spending the night in his room. Although I shall forever be in a constant state of wake, I was already in patent exhaustion. Moreover, there was an impossibility of prancing him again. I slumped on the chair beside his bed.

The events antecedent to the present consisted mostly of Matthew's shock and recovery of composure. The deceased heir, more emotional than my standards could have forseen, continued an alternate exhibition of sobbing and stopping.

Although I note that Sybil and I also left the people from the living reality at quite a loss, Matthew had, should I say, more attachments and responsibilities. I was a mere under-valet, while Sybil was, by law unfair, denied any chance of inheritance and work.

Matthew, however, had more than his loved ones to worry about. He had the estate running at a progressive and gradual phase before his untimely demise. His knowledge of the law helped save Downton from any ominous encounter with bankruptcy. That Branson would have to run their proposed proejcts alone is a vexing reality the family has to confront. He is fit for the position because he had practical comprehension of the land. Yet admittedly, whatever he lacked for in theory, Matthew more than made up for in his knowledge.

Sybil, Matthew and I stayed a little while longer at the bench until the male Crawley could finally muster the sufficient amount of equanimity to go back to the house.

While we were walking, Sybil found this as a chance to explain on the circumstance of transit. Matthew was as gloomy as he was during the commentary but when Sybil introduced the possibility to visit loved ones in their dreams, the grave expression in his face broke away from its compression and turned to something more hopeful.

"I am given five chances, then?" He asked. His eyes were, for the first time since he died, teeming with hope.

Sybil nodded.

The conversation came to a halt when we entered the door leading to the servant's hall, being that it was the only one that was open at this hour. We bid our goodbyes for the night. Sybil was to spend it with her daughter. Matthew decided to spend the night in the library, since Mary was not here yet. His Lordship opined it better for her to remain away from the house for the first night of Matthew's loss.

I was supposed to spend the night in my room.

And yet here I am now.

Though the room was unluckily void of any chance of sunlight, it was discernible to notice the welcome of morning when the alarm clock went off.

Six o' clock.

"Really, you wake up at _six_?" I gave him a quizzical look.

Six was a visibly tardy time for a footman to wake up. Lots of duties, particularly preparing the breakfast table, cleaning rooms for arriving guests, require an extra amount of prudence.

Jimmy opened those bright blue eyes to welcome the thought of the new day. It was strangely the only thing that illuminated the room. They were contrasting the dullness of the boy's surroundings. They searched the ceiling impeccably from left to right with the beat of the metronome. He lied still for the first few seconds under the thin veils of fabric that coated him. He sat in the bed, wearing his nightgown.

If anything, his disregard for anything thicker than his current undergarments is reasonably unsuccessful in hiding any state of, uh, excitement beneath the fabric. Particularly in his nether regions.

Is it possible for dead people to blush? For I am quite sure that my cheeks turned red at Jimmy's unabashed manifestation.

It was his room after all, so he had all reasons to be without restraint.

My attention shifted upwards when I heard him sniffing. The first few minutes of his day were occupied with the tears welling from his eyes. They were at the tip of the lids, but he was exerting a tremendous amount of effort to keep them at bay from falling. The blue shade of his eyes that previously illuminated the room now turned into a lake in the clear night, glistening with each ripple.

"Don't make that long face," I said, from my seat. "That is in no way a proper way to start the day."

Of course he wasn't listening. He then put his hands in the contours of his cheeks, and buried it as hard as he possibly could. They mixed with the salty liquid and made their way to the space between Jimmy's fingers, gravitating towards the wooden floor.

I take my previous statement back. Even in the confines of his own room, it seems Jimmy is still not free from any self-discipline. The boy is without ability to completely unmask the façade that shields his inner self. He viciously tried to keep his sour whimpers to a minimum, afraid that his noise might deprive him further of whatever privacy remains.

He went to the basin to cleanse his face. The cold water roughly mixed with the salty substance in his eyes, possibly with the hope that his pain and troubles will be washed away as well. It was clearly unsuccessful when, after wiping, his eyes just became red.

For whatever reason his eyes were amass with flood, I don't bloody know.

He put his hands on the edge of the basin.

"Get a hold of yourself boy," I heard him say.

He looked at himself in the mirror and addressed himself. The stern expression remained unquivered for a few moments. Soon enough, the fear that swept across his face was immediately simmered to a calmer composure.

The water was able to wash his inner troubles, after all.

When he was thoroughly convinced that his mask could hold its own for the next 20 hours of toil, Jimmy began to scrub the rest of his body spotless. He washed his arms, torso, and legs, and dressed himself for the day ahead. As vain as he may seem, he is as quick as a rabbit in dolling up. He motioned his steps towards the door and went outside for breakfast.

I remained seated, completely mesmerized at Jimmy's capability. Not by his uncompromising vanity despite his surprising promptness, but by our impeccable similarity in being the master of composure. I was flattered and bothered at the same time. He may be able to deeply hold his own remorses, but, unlike me, he lacked a few more years' worth of experience. I'd been through a war, an unfavorable blackmail, and treachery by friends, among others.

I don't suppose there isn't anything Jimmy went through as remotely decisive as that.

Jimmy's innocence precedes his abilities. Perhaps that is why I was drawn to him in the first place – I felt like it was a responsibility to furnish him some experience for future use. Perhaps that is also why I get a bit jealous that he spends most of his time with Alfred. It wasn't a pang of scorn, but a sentiment of regret. If it's meritorious life lessons he desires, a lanky second footman comes second to none in the list of people to avoid.

I do not want to give him a callously bad one, but I don't aspire to talk as if I can guarantee anything beneficial out of my intention.

I heard footsteps drawing towards his room. Unsurpringly, it was Jimmy.

He forgot to close the door. I realized that I was still inside.

"Oh my –"

I hurried towards the door because I do not want to be locked up in this damp and uninviting area for the whole day. But Jimmy went inside again. He went to his cabinet and pulled out the top drawer. He reached for something inside. It was possibly underneath all his garments since it took him quite a while to unravel what he was looking for.

It was a black armband. He placed it in his arm before his feet slowly accelerated their way towards the door.

I did not want to tempt fate anymore, so I ran outside ahead of him. When he finally closed the door, I lingered behind him as he made his way towards the servant's hall.

When we made our way, everyone was already having breakfast. A solemn mood cloaked the entire room, and I noticed that everyone was also wearing black armbands.

_Matthew's death has already made its presence felt downstairs_.

"Good morning Jimmy," Anna began.

Jimmy only nodded in return. He took his seat and grabbed some loaf and milk. The meal continued in silence until it was interrupted by Carson's instructions. "We leave for the funeral service at half past nine."

"Who from upstairs is coming, Mr. Carson?" Alfred browed. The duff bloke didn't even wait for his bread to enter his stomach before speaking.

Mr. Carson gave a stern look, silently muttering to the footman that it wasn't his business.

"Everyone except Lady Mary and her son." He eventually gave in. "Which reminds me, she and the young master shall arrive after lunch."

_Why wouldn't Lady Mary be present at the funeral of her own husband? Isn't that against the laws of connubial affection?_

My face contorted in confusion. Then again, I realized that her most recent childbirth placed her in a visibly delicate condition. _Her muted fragility could not have come at a better time_. Perhaps she should visit her beloved at a later time, alone and with all the opportunities to talk – free from the restraints of formalities imposed by this system.

"Pertinent to this discussion," Mr. Carson wiped his mouth with the napkin, "two automobiles will be provided for the servants for the funeral service. Might I suggest that we finish our course immediately in order that things may start running."

"It's such a bittersweet day, isn't it?" Mrs. Hughes's trembling voice came to the conversation. "A life born, with a life lost."

Once again, the room remained quiet, save for the clanking of the cutlery. Death rains an insufferable amount of silence – one that is kept so not because there is nothing to say, but actually a copious excess thereof, only to be preceded by fear to endow the wrong thing.

A few more minutes of brooding hostility passed until O'Brien decided to stand up. She went outside for a fag. Slowly, each of the servants rose from their seats. The two vehicles were waiting for them outside.

I figured that Sybil and Matthew have already hitched with the Crawley's, as they were still part of upstairs anyway.

I entered the vehicle where Jimmy, Daisy, Anna, Bates, and Mrs. Hughes sat. It was unspectacularly quaint, so it was a wonder everyone managed to fit inside. I didn't really take up much space because Daisy sat on top of me, not feeling a thing at all.

"Mrs. Hughes –" she began. "Don't you suppose he's watching?"

Mrs. Hughes gaze was locked outside the window. She barely even noticed Daisy's question, and even Daisy herself, until the car hit a bump in the road. She looked at the poor old girl who looked more affected by Mr. Crawley's death than she should.

"He's not only watching, he's probably laughing at you for being such a silly one. Crying and all." Mrs. Hughes attempted her best to drive a smile.

Daisy was beginning to cry again, her weeping showing no hesitation for being bold. She was about to wipe an incoming tear from her left eye when her hand was clutched, and tightly so, by Jimmy.

Since I was sitting _inside_ Daisy, I almost felt his hand brush against mine. It sent a wave of weird pleasure through my viens.

He didn't look at her, but replied, "don't worry Daisy. Sad things like these are temporary. Is all." He was looking at the sunny meadow outside, hoping that the cheerful pasture would affect the mood inside the automobile.

"We're bound for happy days soon," he assured.

I wasn't quite sure if his response was directed to Daisy, or himself.

The rest of the ride went by quickly. From the road, the cemetery and the church finally came into full view. The green fields of smooth grass, without any hint of death, were suddenly punctuated by small concrete crosses that bloomed from the ground. The church was dark, sturdy, and, to me, it was uninviting.

I never really believed in the faith that the priests proclaim. It's precisely this maze of creed that pushed me to the distant filth of society in the first place.

The door opened and each of us got off, one by one. When my shoes made contact with the cobblestones, I immediately looked for my fellow kind – Sybil and Matthew.

"Thomas, over here!" the male voice could only be Mr. Crawley's, who was also waiting for me.

I trod along briskly. The rays of the sun were beginning to prick its heat in my skin, so I began to sweat a little. I greeted them with a smile. "Good morning Sybil, Mr. Crawley."

She returned my sincere attempt at a kind gesture. "It's an ironic day to be beaming with happiness, wouldn't you say so, Mr. Barrow?"

"Nothing trumps this sordid irony that we are caught in, my lady," replying ever so casually in the dialogue with an aristocrat.

Matthew interrupted, "I quite agree. A smile might just be our greatest weapon to ward off misfortunes. More powerful than this silly death, even."

The crowd, mixed from upstairs and downstairs, were beginning to form a semi-circle around the priest, Mr. Travis. We made our way towards the people. Bates and some hall boys were at the outermost circle, while the Crawley family, together with Carson and Mrs. Hughes were in the front.

I couldn't help but ask Matthew. "I wonder, Mr. Crawley," I began the difficult question. "How does it feel to be present in a goodbye celebration of sorts…"

What were the right words. "…in your honor?"

He stopped, and stared at me, looking rather bemused.

"Is there anything I said, sir?" I internally berated myself for attempting to be too close with Mr. Crawley. He wasn't going to be as accommodating as Sybil, that's for sure.

Before I could continue reproaching myself, I heard Jimmy let out a unsuccessfully subdued cry. Anna went beside him immediately and offered her shoulder, to which Jimmy did not object.

"Oh I'm sorry – I'm too sorry." He clutched Anna's arms for support. The mask that he prepared earlier in the day was slowly coming into shards in between every word and apology. "I'm terribly sorry."

No one in the circle attempted to abscond his behavior, which I find especially erratic since –.

Oh no.

I looked back at Mr. Crawley, his gaze still appraising me with concern.

He bellowed, "I think you're mistaken as to whose funeral this is, Thomas."

As if by cue, Mr. Travis's voice echoed through the drenched, sunny atmosphere.

"Dearly beloved," I didn't wait for him to finish his words. Everything immediately transfigured to a dizzying blur. The priest became inaudible.

I passed through the people clothed in black until I was finally standing face to face with the tomb.

It was engraved with golden letters forming Thomas Barrow.

I smiled, firmly believing in our previous conversation that it is more powerful than silly death.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: I am quite aware that the previous chapters were cast with an immense amount of gloom. I wanted to incorporate Matthew's death and remain as liberally faithful as I could to the canon. The next few chapters shall be lighter, considerably and comparably. Hopefully no more deaths! R&R!**

* * *

The funeral went by more quickly than I thought a funeral would usually last. It was a terribly spectacular day for a funeral. There was no possibility of rain in sight, sun beamed its streaks almost everywhere, which the birds in flight welcomed. The light delivered an incredible saturation of color, even to the somber edifice of the church.

The ceremony presided by Mr. Travis also went by without a hitch. He was used to the occasional, petrified bawls from the audience, being exposed to funerals as part of his profession.

Soon enough, everyone was making their way outside the cemetery.

"Your son is coming home, soon, Mr. Crawley." I remembered Lady Mary was arriving as I hurried my steps to catch up on Matthew and Sybil.

Matthew broke off his ostensibly serious conversation with Sybil. "Oh yes, I heard that during discussion over breakfast."

"You must be excited?" I imagine the little boy entering his future estate for the first time. "A welcome party must be in order!"

The whole of Downton shall protect, raise, and serve him with all its might until the time arises when the roles have to be reversed.

Sybil chimed in the conversation, but introduced a different topic. "So Thomas, how does it feel to partake in your own funeral?"

"Flattering, really." I was kicking whatever pebble my shoe came in contact with. "I've received more flowers than the Dowager today."

"She should be terribly envious," Matthew chirped. "That bouquet from Molesley's father was simply exquisite!"

We continued our conversation amidst the private, albeit hushed, ones as everyone made their way out of the cemetery. Different voices and pitches introducing assorted topics filled the air. His Lordship was talking to Lady Edith about an upcoming trip to London, Mr. Carson was firing instructions to the staff like bullets, Ivy was talking to Alfred about a new picture to be shown in town.

There was, however, a voice, distinct enough to be recognized. It inserted a question clearly out of the usual.

"Mrs. Hughes, might I have a word?" It was Jimmy.

Mrs. Hughes was in front of him, straddling Carson's orders. I knew she welcomed the interruption since she took a few steps backwards towards Jimmy. "What is it, James?"

"I was wondering if I could –" he paused for his next words. "just walk the way back to Downton."

"I want to stay with Mr. Barrow for a bit."

Mrs. Hughes gave a look of astonishment, possibly calling into mind the bloodshot moment that paralyzed her so terribly. But then, she nipped that egregious scenario off her thoughts and resumed to acting normal.

Mrs. Hughes encouraged his motives, "some fresh air would do you well, James. You may take the morning off."

Jimmy inspected her face with any form of doubt. The older woman knew what to say next. "Don't worry about Mr. Carson. He can't do anything now, can he?"

The young boy gave a grateful smile in return. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."

"I could have Anna occupy you back home –"

"Thank you Mrs. Hughes, really." Jimmy interrupted. "But I would much rather prefer to be alone."

Mrs. Hughes took his statement as a signal to return to the others. She turned towards the opposite direction and made her way out. I could sense that she was satisfied at the outcome of Jimmy's request.

Later, a rattled Mr. Carson attempted his rehearsed protests, but Mrs. Hughes was impervious to the butler's cavils. I knew Mrs. Hughes (and Mr. Carson, for that matter) well enough for the latter to throw in the towel when the head housemaid exerted that much effort at her behest. Mr. Carson would have no way with it, lest he be the victim of her remonstrations of conscience.

I took Jimmy's decision to stay as mine. I didn't even have to inform Matthew and Sybil since they were gazing at me this whole time. I raised my hand and strived for a small wave.

_See you later._

Jimmy wasted a few more minutes until he was sure that everyone, or at least everyone that he knew, was nowhere in plain sight. He stared at my grave, hands in his pocket. His lips twitched in an odd fashion – unsure of what to say, unsure of what to feel.

He craned his neck to survey the surroundings one last time. Once he was finally reassured, his eyes closed. The faint glimmers of blue pastel altogether disappeared under the shadow cast by the sun on his cap.

"I'm sorry it had to be this way, Mr. Barrow."

His breathing was irregularly heavy and unnerved with what he realized and what I was about to find out. "If you only knew how –"

"If I only knew what?" He couldn't hear me, but it wouldn't hurt to try.

But he didn't reply, too afraid of what he might hear from the corners his mouth.

"I'm sorry. Is all." He opened his eyes and looked above. They squinted at the overpowering horizon. Above him, the sky remained steadfast and undisturbed in its omnipresent flurry. The light bounced through the locks of gold that escaped his hat.

Having worn a black suit, that absorbed the heat from above, in this time of day would have been excruciating for him.

He began to make his way out of the cemetery, and I, like a puppy eager to please its master, followed.

The town proper was a few hundred meters away, but the panorama from the walk was completely divorced us from any funereal affinity. Flowers were abloom. They excreted their melancholic fragrance to which the breeze was accommodatingly dispersed. The trees by the road were kind to gift us with shade from the heat. The milieu reminded me of the Jimmy's first dream.

Once we reached the town square, Jimmy stopped by a very familiar shop. Not because he frequents it, but because I do.

"Good morning sir," his words went clinking with the small bells at the entrance.

Jimmy took off his cap, allowing his blond tresses to flow free. An old man stood up from his seat and eyed the boy. "And what might I help you with, chap?"

The shopkeeper was Mr. Tod, a jolly man with a hairline that acknowledged his old age. Whatever hair left showed only pure white strokes. He was a plump little man with a protruding stomach. He didn't dress too neatly at all, perhaps done with the vanity of the world.

"I'd like to have some cigars, sir." Jimmy's shrill voice equaled my shock.

Mr. Tod merely shrugged and got a box from one of his drawers. Once opened, it let loose a strong pungent smell that conquered the room swiftly. The container for cigars housed sundry types and shapes of tobacco. None that Jimmy has ever seen before, granting that he hasn't actually seen much.

He let Jimmy choose. He picked out a pack of white cigarettes from the top of the box. Before he handed it to Jimmy, he asked, "you're from Downton, aren't you?"

Jimmy nodded, still in amazement at the plethora of nicotine inside the box.

"I'm sorry to hear about Thomas. He was a good fellow underneath all that rubbish people tell him to be." He picked up his glasses from the table beside the drawers and fixed them at the bridge of his nose.

"He always bought his cigars from here," he laughed a little, "with the amount he buys, I'd have thought he'd been buying for the whole family."

I laughed because it was embarrassingly true, I was really addicted to those sticks. And boy, would I bloody give anything to have breath that right now.

"Do you have a match?" Jimmy was clearly diverting the topic.

Mr. Tod held up his stubby fingers and lit the cigar. Jimmy inhaled, leading him to cough severely. Both Tod and I can tell that he was delightfully inexperienced. It was amusing to watch him take his first few puffs.

"Taking up after the Thomas, I see." His eyes kept a smile.

I doubt that Jimmy heard of what Tod said as he was too busy being cursed by his lungs as they suffocated with his unwelcome puffs.

"This is –" he coughed a little more, "going to be good. I suppose."

A lot of things are good, Jimmy. Rid yourself of your prejudice and a lot of things are bloody good.

He practiced a few more until he can finally manage to assume the identity of an experienced smoker. He's rehearsing this behavior inside the shop of Mr. Tod to not make a fool of himself in public. And when he was confident enough, he bid the old man goodbye.

As Jimmy's hand grabbed the knob, Tod fondly noted, "that was his favorite too, you know."

The boy grinned and breathed white smoke in front of his face to reply. When the smoke cleared, the door was shut and he was already outside.

Under the English sun, he looked suave with a cigar. A dapper young man, with alabaster skin and a pretty face carried a more toxic combination than the hazardous sticks between his fingers. He was a beautiful contrast of innocence and new-found grunge. The town square was favored with his presence for a few times before turning towards the road towards Downton.

I tried to ignore Mr. Tod's statement that Jimmy was trying to take up after me. The more I suppressed it, the more it took after me.

Jimmy was now happily on his fourth cigarette. As expected, his posture was becoming nebulous. _The effects of having too much cigarettes at once._ Even an experienced one like me abjectly diminishes focus when I'm on a blowing spree. For a greenhorn to consume that much on his first time, he's trying immensely hard to not look like a complete nincompoop in his strides.

_This is worse that being drunk._

"I didn't now this was so good, Mr. Barrow." His slurred tongue grasped for clarity while his mind battled against his lightheaded feeling.

I didn't know if Jimmy was just saying my name out of mourning (if he ever did) or if he really had the slightest idea that I was here.

The clunking sound of his watch made him look at it. His face was flustered. "It's noon?! Bloody –"

He dropped his cigar on the ground and ran in a very sozzled manner towards the direction of Downton, which was very becoming larger in the horizon.

I snorted. Carson would be fuming. He was attempting a sprint, but his sloppy state only permitted him, in reality, to walk. If I strode in haste, I would have overtaken him by a mile.

The snort turned into the inevitable sigh. He was really still a boy, still making his way about the world. With no one to look up to, he settles his scores simply by being masculine about it. For him, it is the answer to all.

If all else fails, he refuses to indulge the character of his thoughts and keeps everything in secret.

"You're bloody late!" I shouted. He continued running, er, walking.

As for me, I didn't have a butler running after my head, so I took a leisurely pace towards the estate.

_What is it that Jimmy wanted to tell me a while ago?_ I thought. If he was in disdain of me as he claims, he would not ask to be left behind and walk all the way to Downton. Nor would he even attempt boldly to smoke for naught.

How I now long for the ability to read minds. Stories have denounced that in death, the spirituality of a person, as that is all that he has left, amplifies a hundredfold to feel and ultimately read other people's musings. The falsity of these horrible stories appalls me.

I was a few meters away from the entrance to the servant's hall when Matthew called from behind.

"Thomas!" He was running towards me. He came from the gardens from the side, presumably from a walk.

"I trust your little trip around town yielded value?" He gave me a little smile.

"Very much, Sir," I replied. He bobbed his head, almost as if he was happy for me.

By this time, Sybil must have filled him in of my true nature. And to his credit, he showed no signs of revulsion.

He's a good man.

I noticed that he wasn't with Sybil, who was probably with her daughter now.

"If I may ask, why aren't you inside?"

Matthew was crawling through his mind for appropriate words, "that's the thing, you see."

We walked a little more towards the shade provided by the house. The sun was still aggressively illuminating the whole of England.

"Mary's finally inside." He put his hands on his waist. "With Patrick."

_Shouldn't you be glad about it?_ The two most important people in your life are finally inside the house you've labored so hard to preserve and develop.

A moment of silence ensued, permitting for the wind to pirouette an intermission between us.

"Oh Thomas," he looked away from me. "I cannot go inside."

The wind continued to weave through the space, this time with an increasing hostility. His generous locks of yellow hair were parting from their prim order.

"What with all the sadness. Mary must be distraught," he continued. "And Patrick, where do I even begin."

"If you can't face them now," Mr. Crawley turned around to watch the words come out of my mouth, "then you shouldn't."

I continued, "on the morrow is as good a time as any."

He looked as if his mother has just given him a scolding.

"Death is a funny business, isn't it Thomas?" Matthew was trying and failing to conceal the pain that terribly embedded his statement.

I nodded in agreement.

Since I died, everything has been a topsy-turvy spectacle of emotions, and more intensified than when I was alive, because feelings are all I have now. They endure as our only connection with those that we love. So far, the three of us have mostly been hard pressed to the capricious wheel of sadness. Any encounter with delight was fleeting and incidental.

I gazed upwards, "must be funny to finally have things out of your control, Mr. Crawley."

Matthew, Sybil and I – we are in a delicate situation. Yet, I've never felt so open and spontaneous towards them.

"I try not to think about the fact that a few months ago," a bewildered smile formed in his face, and he put his left hand over his mouth to conceal it, "I specifically asked Mary to give me some form of detachment from all the command I possess."

I blew an imaginary puff of smoke into the air. "You must take comfort in the fact that our lord grants wishes after all."

"Indeed, oh sly one." Matthew's tone was beginning to lighten up.

Believably not light enough. When I looked at him, his gaze was redirected towards the doorway. He really wanted to go inside, but he knew he shouldn't. He was channeling whatever dormant form of control remained in his system. It is absolutely not in the nature of Matthew Crawley to manifest even the slightest show of frailty in front of his family. Although Mary nor Patrick can't feel him, Matthew would rather incarnate the imaginary figure of strength that his family visualizes rather than weep alongside them.

If he goes inside now, he is pretty sure to do the latter.

"Mr. Crawley," I began.

Trying my best not to add any more amount of friendship than is needed, I extended an invitation. "I was wondering if maybe you fancy a walk with me in the gardens."

His eyes left the main entrance of the house and channeled the blooming roses at the far west of the garden. They were always in their best bloom at this time of the year.

He bit his lips, with me unknowing if he was suppressing a smile. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward.

"Well," he made a move towards me. "It would be a pity to waste such a lovely day inside."

I let out a breath of relief. He could use the temporary distraction to ruminate on his future actions. Moreover, I was glad that he did not take my invitation the wrong way.

Because it was _never_ meant to be taken the wrong way.

"After you, sir." I made a mocking and funny bow. My right arm and hand gestured for the young man to commence the lovely trip.

Our walk in the gardens consumed our whole afternoon. We would stop at each patch of flowers and adjudicate which blossom conspicuously stood among its peers both in beauty and confidence. It took a lot of focus and scrutiny.

Often, our verdicts would result to some good-natured disagreements. Such as this one.

"That red one is quite special, don't you think?" he gestured at the blood-tinted rose sitting prettily in middle of the patch covered by the dancing shadows of a huge English oak.

It was the only red rose in a patch of soft pink so I was not difficult to notice. "It's stands out too much, almost to the point of screaming for attention. I prefer –" I surveyed each flower in the patch, looking for one that would dislodge Matthew's favorite.

"That one." I pointed at the far end.

The pink rose was still nestled under the shade of the tree, but for some reason, it was planted a bit distant from the main patch by the gardener. It did not join in the amusing chorus of pink, but was separated from the others by a small lump of soil.

"But it's a lonely rose, Barrow." Matthew chided. "Geographically unloved!"

I raised one of my eyebrows, praying that it reaches the heavens to show how aghast I am at Matthew's pronouncement.

"Perhaps solitary and resilient would be the better descriptions." I sympathizd, felt sympathy for the poor flower. "Can you honestly hear and believe the pejorative remarks you just said?"

I halted, unable to believe at our discussion. I forget that a few days ago, we were sun and moon in the social echelons.

"I suppose we really still have our differences." Matthew's calm tone commanded mine to do the same.

I diverted the angle of our heated exchange to something more comical. We discussed how neither him or I even noticed how each flower, albeit the same breed, was quite different from one another when we were alive.

Thankfully, the conversation on botany finally came to an end. Our next topics ranged from the bizarre to the extremely personal. One minute we were talking about Molesley's odd fascination, and possibly envy, with Matthew's hair (that's a surprise), and then the next we were discussing our relationships.

Obviously, his was Mary. So our conversation revolved around the engrossing circumstances that bound built the foundation of their short-lived, yet riveting communion. We talked about the war, his temporary disabilities, and, of course, Lavinia.

The conversation on love would not end when he threw me completely off-guard at the instance of a certain footman who unabashedly cried during the funeral.

"Would you tell me how you fell in love with James?"

I buckled again. Matthew Crawley was never to be straightforward on matters outside the usual course of business.

He guffawed when he saw my perplexed reaction. "Oh for God's sake, Thomas. Who am I to strike the gavel of human morality on matters beyond its concern?"

It warmed my heart to know that someone upstairs possessed a transcendental amount of understanding on the purity of my affection with James.

"Besides," trying to make the environment less stifling. "It's quite brave, what you did."

"Mr. Crawley –"

"You will call me Matthew." He stopped me. "If we are to be friends at the very last moment of our lives, we could at least address each other on a first name basis."

Sensing the insufficiency of his comfort, he continued. "And I would really like it if we were to be friends."

The rest of the sojourn in garden took place (again) in the bench under the Willow tree where I told my story to Matthew Crawley.

My one-sided story started from the moment the unassuming lad entered the servant's hall looking for Mr. Carson. Then, it gradually expanded to the occasional, borrowed touches that I placed upon him while he was playing the piano, or being taught how to wind the clock – anywhere I could manage. Finally, I narrated the most stolen moment of all – the kiss. It took me almost a year and a sit-down with Matthew to finally be aware of the sinister behavior I exhibited.

"You must have given him with some really good spooking," Matthew chided, possibly reeling from the uncensored version of my night with Jimmy.

"I'm sorry, Matthew." I gestured as my hands rubbing my knees. "If any further disclosure reaches an uncomfortable level, we could always stop."

"Nonsense," he said, his words effectively hiding any hesitation. "I actually think it's fascinating. Had I been under the your circumstances, I would have gone off hiding in the woods and bury my secret within the trees."

I continued with O' Brien's fraudulent acts, which ultimately led to the most ruthless slap in the face I have ever received my whole life – rejection. I have been rejected many times, but none fares to the hurt brought by Jimmy. His antagonism hauled both my pride and heart to a discordant and burning surface of hell even a devil like me could not reach by itself.

The dialogue ended without any need for explicit declaration when I told him how I eventually had to die for the footman during the fair.

Timely enough, we were now back in the entrance of Downton, and it was beginning to get dark. And the moon was beginning to glow brightly millions of miles above.

I finally offered that we should part ways for the night, since we had our own affairs to take care of. From the conclusions of the exchange, I am confident that he will now be able to face Mary and the rest of the family without his eyes having to pop out from the humongous waterfall of tears.

But before he went inside the main hall, he once again gave me a pat on the back.

"He's a fool, you know."

_I know. You're right._

"Whatever for?"

"For refusing you." With that, he went inside. I was left speechless, both at the thought of a new friend, and for the comfort that it brought.

At least that walk confirmed more than one suspicion towards the same person.

Dinner at the servant's hall went by smoothly. Quickly, even. It has, after all, been a long and tiring day. Everybody was rushing to get some sleep. Even the hall boys didn't require the usual lash of Mr. Carson for them to capitulate from the allure of sleep. After the mandatory cordial exchanges, every one said their goodnights.

Except Jimmy. And Mrs. Hughes.

Jimmy stayed behind and seated at the piano bench. Mrs. Hughes stayed behind to be with Jimmy.

The first few moments of their solace contrived an uncertainty as to who should start the conversation.

"How have you been, James?" Mrs. Hughes began. She was drinking a glass of wine.

Jimmy was brushing his fingers against the smooth keys. His hands found a second home in the alternates of black and white. Slowly, the stroke produced sound – ever so softly.

Jimmy looked at Mrs. Hughes, "would you like me to play you a song, Mrs. Hughes?"

To this, Mrs. Hughes made no objection. She knew, along with everyone, that an invitation incorporating Jimmy and the piano was a match made in perfect melody and one that should never be turned down.

Jimmy was a virtuoso. When we were still friends, he'd always tell me of how the piano was his therapy. Whenever he got a scolding from his parents, when he won a prize at the fair, or whenever he just feels something, _anything_, his instincts would gravitate him to a song.

Jimmy's choice was impeccable for the night. The song started hauntingly slow, with the keys orchestrating a light melody – one that is not demanding, but nonetheless pleasantly beguiling. The tempo developed a faster but unhurried pace. His fingers enchanted the smooth transitions ebbing back and forth, cradling the delicate melody like a newborn infant, not letting it fall off the tune and out of place.

I was flabbergasted. Before me was a boy who, with his occult hands, was spellbinding the beautiful melody with the entrance of the moon's rays through the window. The lunar beams followed the flow of the notes and embraced him.

Mrs. Hughes wasn't as less impressed. Her eyes were closed, with Jimmy's playing catapulting her to a state of trance. Lost in her own thoughts, she granted her imagination absolute freedom to visualize whatever imagery the notes brought her.

Mrs. Hughes drifted back to reality when the song ended.

"My, my, James." She opened her eyes and took another sip of the wine. "What is that beautiful song?"

"It's a favorite of mine, Mrs. Hughes." He began to rub his hands on his knees, a habit of his when attention centers on him. "Claire de Lune, by Debussy."

"It is fitting," she acknowledged, but she refused to verbalize that it almost had her in tears.

Jimmy stood up and made his way towards the door. He eyelids were making their way down and he was losing the battle against sleep.

However, before he finally made his exit, Mrs. Hughes asked him one last question.

"How is it that you manage to play so beautifully, James?"

If Jimmy was seated, he would have rubbed his knees again, but he resorted to placing his hands on his back, rocking his shoes back and forth.

"Oh it's quite simple Mrs. Hughes. I refuse to just play," Jimmy looked at her and smiled. "I tell a story."

A tear rolled in Mrs. Hughes's eyes, but this went unnoticed by Jimmy as he made his way towards the stairs.

"Yours must be the most interesting of all," she took one last sip from her glass and stood up.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Hughes." I said.

It's almost as if she heard me. She held on tightly to the black piece of cloth in her arm.

I followed Jimmy into his room. By the time I entered, he was already in his night clothes, neatly tucked in bed.

He stared blankly into the spaces of his dull room for a few minutes, possibly recalling the bizarrely satisfying day that was.

However, his mind was overwhelmed with the idea, and instead commanded him to sleep.

I stood up, and reached for his forehead.

It's about time for dream number two.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: I terribly apologize for the late (an understatement) update. Requirements from school are finally over, so rest assured, I could now take action in dealing with the more imaginative facet of life – this story. Nonetheless, thank you for the reviews; they complete my day! I am very open to suggestions for future chapters! Please continue to comment and review!**

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I found myself inside a medium-sized room, the ornaments and furniture of which weren't branded aristocratic, but cannot be exactly described as modest either. There was a grandfather clock located in the middle, and, by the echo of its rich ticking, I presumed it to be made of old oak. Both the short and long hands were near to strike noon. Beside it were two tables with intricately carved leaves and ruffles that covered their sides.

On the far end of the room was a closed door. Surveying the room, and basing on my limited knowledge of architecture, the location of the door and the room inside it was quite peculiar as it was not adjacent to any main hallway at all.

There were two paintings pinned in proportion to each wall in my periphery. The one on the left was of an old, yet distinguishably handsome young man wearing what seemed to be a dinner suit. The blond man wore a stern expression on his face. The right painting ballasted the counterpart. It was a woman seated in a field of blooming roses of the fiercest shade of red. She had luscious brunette locks. The gaze of pastel blue eyes looked a bit lost, yet somehow, I found myself convinced that she was also happy. Had I known any better, the painter used the same hue in painting her eyes and the clear sky above her. In the middle of the painting, a baby boy was perfectly cradled in the woman's arms.

With the display and arrangement right before my eyes, it was safe to speculate that I was in a living room of some sort – a quaint and wonderful one at that. It was illuminated by a warm and tender display of sunlight. The yellow gleam from outside curiously crept through every nook, foot, and corner. Despite the immense clarity of my surroundings, the climate wasn't scalding at all. It was just enough.

It took me a considerable amount of time gratifying the comfort I was feeling before I realized that I was sitting on a rather plush couch. I was directly across the clock and the tables. The soft cushions were glazed with an orange fabric with subtle embroideries of yellow designs. In one corner, there was a jar filled with the lushest violets I have ever laid eyes on. To my right, however, was a strange box placed beside me.

I lifted it easily and so it couldn't possibly contain any metal. "Or gold," I sighed, my tone more somber and sincere than I expected.

Still, that didn't dissuade my curiosity. I turned it over to see the bottom, possibly hoping to see some name indicating who this bloody box is for, or at least who it came from.

And I did. Unsurprisingly, the box, in black capital letters, practically shouted: KENT, N.

This was Jimmy's dream after all.

Speaking of which, where is that man?

I stood up and straightened my suit. There was a mirror near the peculiar door. Since I was in a dream, I rejoiced in the fact that I could see myself. Magnetized by an unrequited dose of vanity, I walked towards it to assure myself that I was presentable enough.

To my relief, I was.

I still looked like myself, but considerably younger. The creases on my face were practically invisible. My hair was had more volume and less dependent on pomade, which made some of its ends fly off uncontrollably. My height also decreased few inches. I looked a good 15 years younger.

"Back to puberty," I smiled in front of the mirror. This conviction was reinforced when I saw how baggy my outfit was, seeing that I had still no regard for sharp and symmetric appearance at that age.

Still, that didn't answer my question. Where was Jimmy?

My gaze transferred from my dapper reflection towards the handle. It was made of brass, but clearly unpolished by any standards. It seemed to me as if it was often used, too often actually that polishing would be an unnecessary task, notwithstanding its awkward positioning in the house. Before I even made an attempt to touch and turn to see what was inside, I placed my ear next to the wood and attempted to put my shining ability to eavesdrop to good use.

The sounds were muffled, but what I heard were not only words.

There was… music?

I leaned closer, pressing onto the wood. My suspicions were correct, there were both words and tune. I pushed the door open, ever so slightly. It took me a while to crack some space since any minute creek could trigger my presence. The opening was large enough to clearly perceive the sound, yet discreet to maintain the privacy of the conversation.

"Oh come on, it's just an A and F, not some fancy geometry!" an old, raspy voice echoed. "How hard can it be to get them right?"

Two notes, presumably the A and F, produced sounds. Again, the low voice raised an objection, "don't make it too loud!"

_Isn't loud to me._ Then again, I'm hardly a music pundit, am I?

A new voice filled the room. This time, it was a bit nasal and high-pithced. "It's not loud, father! I doubt anybody outside could even hear it." The voice, or whoever possessed it, was clearly grumpy.

"Doesn't mean that it's not booming here," the older one said.

I could barely see the figures in front of me, only their backs. Given what I've heard, it was a father and son duo. The older man had grey receding hair. It was pretty obvious even from where I was standing since I could practically see the apex of his head. Nonetheless, he had a lean figure, or at least leaner than those normally of his age.

I could not make much of the little boy, since his father blocked half of my view. He seemed to be in the middle of a lesson which, from the way he reacted a while ago, he was not enthusiastic about. He was neatly seated on a stool while his father was on a separate chair on his right.

The father patted the boy on the back, "now, I know you'd rather go off and play with your mates, but trust me, you'll be a great pianist someday. And you'd have me to thank!" The tone of his words transitioned from imperious to comforting.

"And I could live in a larger house than this!" The boy let out a sigh before attempting to rid the grumpiness out of his response.

The dad cut off whatever ruminations the younger boy had, but without any ill intention. "You can't start moving out if you haven't even played one decent piece yet!" He chuckled. "Now, repeat the whole thing. Don't forget the five flats!"

The boy settled his hands into the black and white keys of the piano and began the piece. The song was, in its entirety, slow, but it was a delightful kind of unhurried melody. Some of the parts were choppy, presumably from the boy's short arms. Overall, however, the tune was an abstract semblance of everything that the house was – benign and opulent with solace. To an extent, the refrained seemed even familiar.

After the boy finished, the older man crossed his arms and paused to conjure his next words. "It lacked some feeling," but he gave the boy a reassuring pat on the back, "but overall that was, by a mile, better than your last performance, Jimmy!"

Jimmy, of course.

"But you told me it lacked feeling!" He enunciated the last word too much with his high-pitched voice that the whole statement completely turned into a whine.

The young Jimmy crossed his arms again. I smirked, realizing that only Jimmy could have possessed that beautiful and adorable amount of impertinence at such a young age.

Perhaps I snorted a bit too loud that the father, instead of responding to his son, turned away and dubiously looked at the door (and by default, me) instead. My blood grew cold and all I could feel was the uprush of sweat instead. I released my hands from any contact with the wooden door immediately and placed them shakily at my sides.

He stood and went to my direction. Each step he took was in rhythm with both the timing and volume of my palpitating heartbeats. The door swung fully open, and more light, if that is even possible, crowned the living room where I stood. I stared at the floor, and swore to glue my gaze towards it for the remainder of the period.

I thought all means of repercussions –maybe he was about to pound me my his fists, kick me in my own knob, or poke a gun to my face, even if the latter option was quite preposterous.

Instead, he mumbled something along the lines of "there you are, young lad!"

My promise to affix my eyes to the ground was immediately broken when I heard the jovial tone. I looked up and saw what could be the older version of the painting on the left side of the wall. The medium-built man contained the same chiseled features, yet with an unprecedented loss of hair. At his old age, he had praiseworthy poster. The man, or if I may say so, Jimmy's father, wasn't a gloomy sight at all.

The view behind him wasn't unattractive either. Yellow and red colored glass windows, much like the ones I saw in a church a long time ago, generously dwelled along the walls. Red, yellow, and henceforth orange jounced along the environment, emitting an attractive display of illumination. _The family must be a zealous supporter of natural lighting._

The chamber behind the door was apparently some sort of music room. From where I stood, there was a proud grand piano in the middle of the room. In contrast to the handle I mentioned awhile ago, this was the one instrument that was clearly well-utilized yet still devotedly maintained.

And of course, from the piano, the natural course of my eyes went straight to the little man who was now looking at me as if I were an exotic cat. He looked exactly like Jimmy, only that his young appearance emphasized his freshness. His arms were on his sides as well. However, that didn't quite dispel his spiteful impression as I have never seen his eyebrows so nastily twitched.

Granting his attempt at being frightful, I was supposed to be afraid, but I directed that emotion directed towards his father. Instead, I felt nothing but delight at the sight of Jimmy. He was considerably a spoiled whippersnapper, which explains a lot about his current behavior. Yet seeing the child inside him, without any association to the worldly, masculine character that he has built in recent years, refreshed me on the often contrary reasons why I have been completely smitten with him. Before me, I need not bring out his youth, because it is the only thing that he still has.

I've only been with him for a couple of minutes, and half of the time I didn't even know it was actually him, but I am fully convinced that my conclusions about him, at this time, at this moment, were not hastily done. Not at all.

However, the other emotion of terror, which I was supposed to feel towards his father, demanded more attention.

"Boy, are you listening to me?" His question was beginning to assume the form of a heckling than an inquiry.

I didn't realize that he was talking to me, but I kept my manners. "I apologize sir."

"I said, have you got the delivery for me?" He pronounced each word clearly as if to signal that he was talking to an audibly invalid person.

Delivery? _Delivery? _I have no idea what the man was talking about. But I couldn't say that in front of him, could I? He'd have more reason to report me to the police, apart from prying in his own house.

"I -," cutting of my unknown response, I remembered the box that was placed beside me in the couch.

"Yes sir," I answered instead. Walking towards the box, I grabbed it an glimpsed a mark on one of the edges – Adamson and Swift.

_Who's that? _

The man's eyes glittered when he saw the package. "Marvelous! Thank heavens you got it here safe!" his voice echoed through the hall. "I was afraid, you know. Times like these, the streets are aplenty with daft youngsters who'd do just about anything to trouble you!"

Once I gave the box to him, he smiled even more. I wonder what could have been so special about the box that caused him an initial amount of unease that quickly transformed into serenity when he held it safe in his arms.

On cue, he answered my unspoken question. "You see, it's my boy's tenth birthday today."

My mouth dropped, it was Jimmy's birthday? This must be a really special dream.

"This here," proudly fondling the box, "is my gift to him."

I didn't quite know what to say so I minimized the bountiful space in my mouth, but not completely shut it, if only to show my amusement.

Sensing my immobilized state, the father continued. "Sorry, I forgot to ask for your name boy. You are?"

"Tho -," I halted. I wanted to make this experience with Jimmy as distant and at the same time personal as ever. I looked at the box again.

"Adam, sir." It would have been a better option than Adamson, or Smith for that matter.

The older man held out a hand to shake, which I immediately accepted. "Very good, my name is Nikolas Kent. But you can call me Nicky."

He withdrew his hand from me and gestured towards the other room. "And that is my boy, James. But you can call him Jimmy."

The little Jimmy only half-, no, gave a quarter of a smile. He was still baffled, or possibly tired from all the playing.

"Happy birthday, there!" I gave the most neutral greeting that my faculties would permit, since I was afraid that injecting more glee to it would cause suspicions from Nicky.

"You must be tired," Nicky said. "Your shop's a long way from here. Would you care for some milk? Or some apple pie?"

He smiled before he continued, twitching his nose in the process. "I'm sorry lad, I'm not really used to having visitors. I don't know what to offer!"

"Some, uh, pie would be alright sir." I said vaguely. The old man looked handsome, but those of his kind had barely decent to unlikely dependable skills in gourmet.

He placed the box on the floor before proceeding to the other end of the hall, presumably the kitchen.

I went inside the music room and winced at the thought of a man leaving his son unattended with a boy who he caught stalking and could possibly be, for all he knew, a sneaky thief.

But then again, I wasn't. I used to steal some wine when I was alive, but that was ages ago. That was before Jimmy.

So, who am I to complain, really?

"You're really good at playing, you know." I attempted a conversation. "How long have you been doing it?"

"Four years," came the abrupt answer. He was still as a rock.

As a follow up, I asked, "do you like it?"

He nodded.

An awkward pause followed. I realized that I shouldn't be speaking so freely to him, and debated with myself if I should continue the conversation or just wait until his father arrives. I might have met him a long time ago, but he has only met me now.

"Apple pies are my favorite, you know. Father makes a lot of them." The squeaky voice echoed through the tiny room. Jimmy wasn't looking at me, but it thrilled me that he wanted to restart the conversation.

"Did your father ever tell you not to talk to strangers?" Attempting to be sinister, I gave him a wry smile, with one of my eyebrows arched.

But the boy was not to cower. "Well he invited you for some pie, didn't he?" He crossed his arms again, but I knew that he was secretly pleased.

"Well, yes," taken aback at the young one's brazen attitude. "I suppose he did."

Jimmy's looks loosened to a wide grin. "Besides, you don't look like an ugly thief. You look clean."

"But aren't the _clean_" I made sure to emphasize the word, "ones like me are those who you should be afraid of? I'm pretty good at pulling the wool over someone's eyes."

Jimmy stood up from where he was standing to approach and possibly reproach me, with a stance resembling Carson's.

"But it's _wrong_ –" there he goes again with prolonging his words to put emphasis. " to judge people!"

I stopped my mouth from replying, or responding anything for that matter.

Then I laughed.

I laughed as I have never laughed for a long time, both in life and in death. But it wasn't a mocking one. In fact, it was completely the opposite. I was absolutely exhilarated.

"You should remember that when you become old." I wiped the tears of glee off my face. "Might come in handy, you know. Might even save some people from their jobs!"

He curiously gazed at me, almost as if envisioning that he might cost me my position in Downton one day. "Why wouldn't I remember? My dad says I've a sharp mind," he babbled. Turning his back towards me, he began to strut back to the piano.

When he got back to his seat, he sighed. He placed both his hands on his knees and began to rub them.

I had gooseflesh at the sight. Knowing Jimmy long before he was young, I was sure that this habit of his meant something was terribly off.

"Is anything wrong?"

He looked at me with a wary expression. His cheeks were still a bit chubby so he couldn't perfect the pout he always does. "Can you help me?"

"About what?"

He was still rubbing his knees. "My dad keeps on prattling about emotions. I've done the notes all right, but he says that there's something missing," his tone was meek, possibly embarrassed by the fact that he was asking for advice from an unknown. "I don't understand it, but I don't want to disappoint him."

At a young age, Jimmy was already thoughtful as he was immodest. Despite his unfavorably predilections to being bossy and condescendingly moody, he was a sensitive boy when he chose to. I never believed that this virtue has absconded his personality even as he grew older. It's just that he lacked the means to express it, or the person to show it.

But that didn't erase my problem on how to help Jimmy. I didn't know much about music. To me, the tune was already jolly good. I didn't see any life-threatening errors in the manner he played. But I am also not his father.

Then, I recalled his conversation with Mrs. Hughes.

"Perhaps –" I tried to mimic his exact words, "you should not just play the song. You should also tell a story through the song."

"What?" He gave me a more confused look. I might have caused him more uncertainty even if that is the last of my intentions.

"You know –" I berated my young self for failing to be articulate when I time I desperately needed it, "imagine a story that fits the melody. Then imagine it when you play."

My hands were rolling round and making gestures as I tried to explain. "Helps you get a better picture of, uh, things."

Jimmy's hands were again on his arms and his brows were arched. That combination meant that he was thinking really long and hard about what I said and at the same time extremely gutted at the lack of results.

"Do you understand what I just said?" I was formulating a more simple explanation in my mind in case he said no.

He fractiously pierced his eyes towards me, and while it may have had little effect, the message to shut me up was conveyed very clearly.

"Of course I do, you silly fool."

_Watch your language, James_. But I knew better than to verbalize it. That boy is not tractable then as he is now, or the other way around.

He equipped his hands with the keys to the piano. "I just don't know what story to think of."

Going against my better judgment to remain quiet, I tried to remember the whole melody and suggested my own interpretation of the piece.

"Well, when I heard your piece, I thought of, uh," come on Thomas, I mean Adam, "dogs."

He looked at me again, but this time in jest.

"Yes, dogs. I imagine taking my three dogs for a walk sometime in the middle of September."

Jimmy began to toy his fingers with the keys, creating short, spontaneous harmonies. "So you've been listening after all. You're a stalker, aren't you?"

"Well, you could call me that," putting more conviction and veracity to the words than I had ever meant to.

He laughed at me, the jest turning to a more obvious form of scoffing.

"That's mad! I hate dogs! I don't think I can imagine that when I play! Or I can, if the song requires anger!"

I can see the tears of mirth that were forming in his eyes. I consoled myself in the fact that my humiliation has brought some indispensable contribution on the topic of emotion.

"What's all this laughing about?" Nicky came into the room, but his inquiry was more of why we should continue having fun than why we shouldn't. He brought in a tray of milk and some apply pie.

Jimmy went towards the direction of the food and immediately stuffed his mouth with a slice of pie while unsuccessfully uttering "Adam is a funny person."

"Now, now, Jimmy," Nicky mentioned, "it might be your birthday but that doesn't give you a free pass to be sloppy!"

I sat on one of the couches inside the music room as I watched the grub being wiped off the edges of Jimmy's mouth.

Nicky briefly stood up to get the box that I allegedly delivered and handed it to Jimmy. The boy's eyed widened and gave his father a kiss on the cheek. He didn't need an instruction from Nicky to open the box since he began to lift the lid.

The box was finally open and Jimmy pulled out his gift. He shrieked and gave his father a tight embrace. He was undeniably captivated.

Surprisingly, so was I.

I was the one who delivered the metronome. The one he has kept all these years.

"Oh thank you daddy!" Jimmy couldn't contain his amusement. His father kept saying "slow down" as if reasoning with a dog to stop running about. And as with dogs, the efforts failed.

"I want to play the piano all my life! This is perfect!" Never have I heard someone babble a sentence wherein there is a ridiculous elongation of the syllables every two or so words.

I didn't mind at all. Jimmy's happiness triumphed over his linguistic funny business.

"You have to thank Adam as well," Nicky managed to complete a sentence while being suffocated by his boy. "He's come all the way down here to bring you your gift safely!"

Jimmy looked at me, but this time it wasn't stained with any more taunt or devilry. "I guess I can call you my friend now!"

I tried to hide a tear, or what I'd rather call an unfortunate sting brought about by the dust, in my eye. But I never forgot to respond with, "I guess we are."

He got the metronome and positioned himself on the stool. "Gentlemen! You're in for a treat!"

Before I could say a word, Jimmy began to stroke the keys and started with the familiar tune again. But this time, he seemed to understand what he was playing. No, he wasn't just playing, he was telling the story. Each press of the key, whether it was a soft roll over or a more powerful and ostentatious strike, was dignified and not out of place. The ebb and flow of the notes weren't precise, but they were virtuously pure as they retreated and worked over their volume.

The ruddy palette that radiated from the colored glass blossomed into a phantom dance of light and song. I've scrambled through my mind, again and again, to look for a better word, but nothing gives more conviction than pure.

After playing, Nicky couldn't help but clap. "If I'd known that apple pie had that effect on you, then I'd make you one each time I make you study a tune!"

"It's not the pie, father." Jimmy laughed along with the older man. "It's Adam!"

The father gave a shrewd look at me, as if to accuse me of poisoning his son.

"He told me that I should think of a story whenever I play!"

"Oh -," was all his father could reply. I was relieved that Jimmy never thought twice in answering his father. Or else I might have to consider entertaining again the possibilities of what he might do to me.

"And what is your story, Jimmy?" I shifted the topic from what I've told Jimmy to what Jimmy actually thought.

Unequivocally, the young boy answered. "I thought of mum. Like in the painting outside, I mean." His eyes never lost their bright gradient. He was completely comfortable of the new topic, unlike his father who has seemed to cloak up with all forms of sensitivity.

"I imagined her carrying me before she died of the -," he scrambled for the next word. More for the inability to pronounce it than the somber weight it could bring. "- fool… fooluh… floop…"

I wanted to correct him and say that it was _flu_, but the message was fairly sent and understood by both me and Nicky. I knew for a fact that the man and the woman in the paintings outside are man and wife, but it was only a few moments ago that I finally patched the pieces together and realized that they were the parents of Jimmy. From the depths of my mind, memories of Jimmy and me conversing about how we were contra mundo began to surface. It was that night that he told me that his mother has died of the flu. Sadly, his promising upbringing and its eventual quietus began to make sense.

In the corners of my eye, I could see that Nicky, surprised at how sensitive the turn of events were, was trying to hold back the tears. I took it upon myself to leave him and his son for a moment alone.

I broke the silence of the room that was, a few minutes ago, filled with an ethereal refrain. "I best get going."

Nicky did not make any motion to object, but stood up as well and walked towards the door. However, he still smiled at me, silently giving thanks to the emotional liberty that I suggested to his son. I smiled back, because I was grateful that he was not mad.

But more than that, I was indebted for the opportunity to spend time with his son, who was still oblivious at the delicate subtext that replaced his tunes.

"You will come back, won't you Adam?" Jimmy asked me. It was my first time to realize, or re-realize the hypnotizing blue gradient in his eyes.

This time, Nicky made a motion to oppose, "James, the boy has work to do, don't go telling him off –"

"Of course, I will come back. We're friends, aren't we?" I snapped whatever chagrin Nicky might feel for having such a vocal and spoiled son.

With that, I made my way out of the music room. I looked at myself one last time in the mirror, since it would be a long time before I could see my young self, or any phase of myself, again.

Nicky shook my hand again and proceeded to open the door that led outside. But before I could finally leave the house, I went back to Jimmy's room. Since I realized that Jimmy was, well, the _Jimmy_ in my dreams, I asked him a question that has been lingering at the back of my mind.

He was fondling his new metronome when I entered the music room.

"I do apologize for barging in, but what was the name of the piece that you played?"

He gave me a bizarre look, and this time I am quite sure that it was in jest.

"You deliver metronomes for a living, yet you don't know the title?"

I shrugged, knowing that it was hopeless to argue and win over a rascal.

He placed his left hand on his forehead, ticking the index finger against the temple. The boy was debating on whether he should wait for me to guess or just respond.

Jimmy, impatient as ever, gave up and rolled his eyes.

"Clair de Lune," he said in a scolding tone. "Debussy, you silly old man."

James, why did you ever have to grow up.


	12. Chapter 12

I was back in Jimmy's room by the time I regained my vision. The whiteout did not last too long. It wasn't as dizzying nor excruciating as compared to the first time. Either that, or the pleasant ride back to reality was favorably generated by the wonderful experience I had in Jimmy's dream.

The room, as usual, was still dark, and without a hint of sunlight. Although the windows were closed, there was a wisp of cold air that constantly entered from the tiny space beneath the door. It was domesticatedly dancing across the room.

My favorite person in the world was still in blissful marriage with his bed. His face was buried under the pillows, and most of his body was covered with the thin, untidy display of sheets. Part of his left foot managed to escape the white cloak and was exposed to the cold air.

I sat in my – no – _his_ chair (which I have slowly formed an affiliation to) and waited. There was nothing else I could do, really. At this time of the day, only two things can be a source of worthwhile interest: a) monotonous and mechanic ticking of the clock, and b) the once in a while shifts in Jimmy's sleeping position.

The latter happened a few seconds later when he slowly moved upwards towards the headrest of the bed. In doing so, the pillow on his side silently fell to the cold floor. I could only retort with a frown, since the disarray became more chaotic. The bedroom may be the only private space Jimmy possesses, where he is free do to as he pleases, but, to many failed attempts, this explanation couldn't vanquish my natty attitude towards life in general.

But my smirk unconsciously turned into a smile. Jimmy's pandemonium was relaxed, without any pretense. He was just unconsciously himself, unbound by the stress of his livery and without the pestering of the strict conduct dictated by society. It was this absence of subterfuge that lured me to attempt to profess my emotions to him.

"You're adorable," I whispered, half-hoping that he would hear it, but half-hoping for the opposite.

The circulation of the frigid air grew more intense when the door suddenly swung open.

Of course, it could only mean one thing.

I looked at the clock, which validated my suspicion that it was already 6 o'clock. The silver contraption was the only reliable source of time in the room, since the light from outside, for the most part, was unfazed and frozen.

Waking the staff is usually the duty of the hall boy, but it seems that the rule has changed since I found myself staring again at the person who woke Jimmy up the previous day.

"It's time to wake up, Jimmy," a fully-dressed Alfred declared, in a voice not too loud to wake up the others, but not too gentle as to lose the authority in his statement.

As expected, the only reply he received was a muffled, inaudible sound. I could not even figure out if those were actually words, or merely moans that, in fact, were not intended to mean anything at all.

Alfred stood firmer, as if expecting that Jimmy might see, hear, or at least feel the redhead's sovereignty. "Would you rather get up yourself, or have me drag you out of that messy bed of yours?"

To my surprise, it only took a few seconds for his trick to work. Jimmy, with a barrage of complaints, got up from his bed. Alfred wrestling him out of his dormancy was totally out of the question.

Jimmy blinked a few times to adjust to his surroundings. He gave Alfred an angry stare, but I doubt the taller footman noticed, since his eyes were covered under his tangled, golden locks.

"That's what you get for waking him up," I chided.

In as much as Alfred was becoming impatient for Jimmy's lack of discipline, the latter seemed to silently enjoy the unspoken disobedience. Instead of standing up, he took the metronome that was placed on his side-table. With the limited top surface, it miraculously fit with his alarm clock and the candle stand.

He hugged the metronome in front of Alfred. I have no idea what his intentions were, but after smiling in front of the standing footman, Jimmy closed his eyes and, soon enough, began to cradle the wooden instrument like a child.

Alfred, who I suppose figured the jeering, crossed his arms and leaned on the door post. He twitched his lips, and joined me in figuring out what Jimmy was on to.

"What's this funny business about?" he asked.

Jimmy, eyes still closed, answered childishly, "now Alfred, can't a boy love his treasures anymore?" His tone evoked the sometimes annoying, sometimes charming manner in which the younger Jimmy used to prove his point.

"At a time when you should be getting ready for the day, I should say no," came the retort from Alfred, who was trying his best to mimic Carson.

To this, Jimmy merely laughed. "I received this as a gift exactly _fifteen_ years ago," he stopped with propping up his wooden infant, "could you believe that? Fifteen years, mate!"

The tone in Jimmy's statement changed. It was too exiguous in volume for Alfred to hear, so his expression and his posture remained unfazed. However, from where I sat, I noticed the timbre's adjustment all the same. It slightly went from a declaration to something more like a… hint?

Alfred's stoic figure was slightly modified by the impatient and barbaric tapping of his shoe.

"Oh sod off, I'll join you downstairs in a while." He placed the metronome back on the table and observed the inert and mammoth appearance of Alfred by the door.

"Might your majesty leave me in peace to dress first?" I imagine Alfred was quite busy mentally extolling in his triumph so it took Jimmy another ounce of his irascible attitude to drive him away. This time, there was no fluctuation in his intonation, and it was all pure irritation. The smiling Alfred thankfully got the message and closed the door.

I was too preoccupied figuring out the subtext, granting there was any, behind Jimmy's previous skirmish to notice that he has already changed into his clothes in lightning speed.

I looked at him in adoration while he performs his final rituals of vanity in front of the mirror. He wasn't blessed in height, but I doubt anyone (except me, that is) would hardly notice since everything about his livery was so sharp and on point. His posture and the way he carried himself properly exposed his confidence, which is too abundant that it left no room for doubts regarding his vanity. I then took a good look at his face. Jimmy's crisp exteriors were elegantly counterbalanced by his candid and gentle features. The subtly arched nose, the pastel eyes, and his unassuming lips all complement to his lovable, and, at the same time, virile demeanor.

After one final attempt to curl his hair, he made his way outside. I went ahead of him to make sure that I would not become a prisoner to his dreary room for the remainder of the day, or until Jimmy takes his afternoon break. However, part of me wanted to stay. Possibly because I still haven't figured out the motive I was trying to solve earlier. Or perhaps I was just overthinking? And Jimmy seemed to just be in great deficit of his marbles for the first few minutes of his waking state?

But it seemed too curious to go unnoticed, even considering how early it was in the morning. If there was an answer, or a clue, it could only be found in Jimmy's room. But then again, I could not really decode and piece together the puzzle unless Jimmy left everything, and I mean every little thing in his room, out in the open. As a ghost, I am unable to open drawers, unleaf through his letters, or even move his chair. It would just be a staring contest between me and the sparse furniture, with the occasional subtle yet ostentatious entry of the wind from the hallway.

My internal debate on whether I should stay or not was literally shut out as Jimmy closed the door to his room. Powerless as I am, I followed him as he made his way towards the stairs.

Jimmy was still fixing his buttons, but it posed no hindrance for me to comment how a well-pronounced walker he is. The clacking of his heels against the wooden floor produced the sound of panache. It was well practiced, very evolved, and so much unlike the way he pranced around his father's music room when he was young. He strode in synchronized fashion, with the distance between his steps mentally calculated – almost as if he was internally playing a song.

_That's it!_

I hastened my stride, almost to the point of running, and phased through Jimmy. He shivered a bit as I advanced through his body. If I didn't know any better, I made a slight but noticeable puff.

But that didn't matter now. I had to make my way towards the lobby as fast as I could. The spiral stairs did not make the task any easier, but instead of sniveling about it, I took the time to formulate and construct a coherent narration of thoughts to be articulated to the person who I hope, and mostly likely know, is already awake at this early in the morning.

I was right. Matthew was already sitting in one of the well-plush chairs the adorned the lobby by the time my panting self entered the hall.

"Isn't it early for a morning jog, Thomas?" The other significant blonde in the house opened our conversation without any greeting of how good this morning is.

Not that I did any better, since I was extremely engaged in suppressing the aggressive swelling of my lungs from that unexpected marathon down the stairs to reply.

Noticing my exhaustion, he continued with his mock scolding, which I assume he was enjoying. "And _inside _the house, for God's sake!"

By this time, my breathing, although still deviant from its normal state, was already bearable for me voice out words.

"It's..." I panted, my hands on my hips.

Matthew shot me a concerned look. "What?" he said. "Surely there's nothing in our current state that need to be rushed about?"

He was wrong. There is. Although it's for an entirely different reason that what I suspect he thinks. To calm both ourselves down and assure him that there was no need (well, maybe a little) to panic, I took one deep breath to finish my opening statement.

"It's Jimmy's birthday today!"


	13. Chapter 13

Matthew deserved an explanation for my early morning sprint for what, he gathered, is merely a birth anniversary of one of the footmen. His gaping expression was not pivoted on the fact that Jimmy, upon the dictation of society, was a person from downstairs. He wasn't one to buttress on the idea of class. Rather, it's on the burning unproportionality between my actions and the event itself.

Come to think of it, why am I actually in such a hurry to have the news of Jimmy's birthday known? To someone dead, for God's sake. I admit, initially it was out of surprise, and with that came the dire need to have this information disclosed. It's not everyday that I am given the chance to enter a dream involving a birthday and successively find that, for once, the waking state is parallelto the circumstance of transit. But now that I am here, and I've consummated my need, I don't suppose Matthew would be cordial enough to receive that as a sole reason.

I was not keeping anything under my hat. I _knew_ that I thought of, and that I actually _have_, another reason when I was typically leaping down the stairs, but somewhere along those helical steps, it fell.

By the time the last breath marred with the exhaustion finally escaped from my lungs, I walked towards Matthew. He was stoic as steel like he was before, but underneath, I could tell he was secretly demanding me to utter something more than what I just declared. Thankfully, my brain managed to remember the narration that coursed through my mind as I was doing my own physical jogging earlier.

"You see," I began, "I wanted to tell this to you as early as possible."

_So much for stating the obvious_. Matthew crossed his legs from the chair and held his hand around his chin. His unkempt blonde crown partly covered his face when he shifted his sitting position. Why am I even so perturbed to tell him the reason now that I've remembered it? Actually, I did not only recall it; I had it all mapped out. My mind has surprisingly abdicated me.

"I was hoping, actually," be brave, Thomas, "that we might be able to... give… him… a surprise?"

I knew it, it was a ridiculous, petulant idea. Matthew would eventually snicker, which would turn into a loud howl. I could feel it. He hasn't even made an attempt to even flinch an eyebrow. Perhaps he's suppressing his guffaws? Or maybe he did not even bother to lampoon since the idea, even I have to admit, was at the height of absurdity.

"Well," I grew impatient of the silence, "aren't you going to say something? Or even laugh? Anything?"

Matthew removed his hand from his chin, which revealed a smile. As to what point of view triggered that smile, whether that be humiliation or novelty, I was unsure. But I would find it out with his next words.

"Thomas," Matthew said, "let me gather my thoughts for a moment."

I couldn't refuse him. At least he already had a response. It even took me a few minutes to remember that I had something to say. I sat down on the chair beside him. We were separated by a small table with a vase of daisies clustered on top of it. The daisies were at mid-height so they didn't obstruct my view of the currently thinking Crawley.

"I think," he began, "that your idea is insane."

He shot me a serious, powerful look. When I returned the gaze, it's as if everything that surrounded us, including the daisies in between, suddenly vanished. Suddenly, we were locked in this staring competition, with me powerless with any valid retort. But his tone wasn't reproachful. It was unswerving, I admit, but it wasn't mocking. He broke the gaze and stood up. The periphery began to be clearer and color saturated my surroundings again.

"We should do it!"

His back was facing me, but I knew from the excitement in his tone that he was smiling, and that he was brimming with enterprise. Like he was some wide-eyed child about to embark on an adventure of thrilling proportions. I mouthed a silent 'thank you' in response. I was not sure if he heard it, but I knew I came to the right person first. Sybil would be a suitable choice, too, except that she doesn't really go down at this time of the morning, and between her and Matthew, it was the latter who would likely dismiss the proposal if it served too puerile.

Which, apparently, isn't the case. The initial part of my plan, which was getting the judgment of decency, was already achieved. It was reachable, possible, and most importantly, reasonable. I did it so very advanced in the morning because I wanted to know if the day ahead would involve a collaboration among us deceased, or a solo effort for me, which meant that I would need a longer amount of time.

I had to admit, even if Matthew thought that the idea was unreachable, impossible, and unreasonable, it would not stop me from reaching out to Jimmy.

The next part of the plan, however, would be the tricky arc. This one involved the manner – the how's, the what's, the procedure. Dreams aren't part of the option, since I had practically no control over that aspect. The second dream did not have the ridiculous torment of the first one, but I wouldn't' trust on that, nor push my luck. Jimmy's mind is widely established as dodgy.

Now, this is where Sybil comes in. That girl has a talent for these things that I wish I had. Unfortunately, my mind becomes fully lubricated and creative only when the plan involves some sort of conspiracy. Sybil's, however, is fit for righteous designs. She'd think of a way, I'm sure of it.

That I didn't ask Matthew for suggestions was an implicit edict that the planning was to be left to Sybil. The male Crawley seemed to echo this mutual agreement so he made no move to present whatever ideas he may have had, either because they were flimsy at best, or he didn't have any ideas at all.

"Thank you, Matthew." I unbosomed myself of the gratitude and support. This time, he looked at me, and I didn't need to speculate if he was beaming or not.

I sat comfortably, and took a few moments to relish the positivity of the moment. But then, the both of us couldn't stand the silence for too long. I stood up and walked beside him. Before we knew it, we found ourselves being lured to the drawing room.

"Have you visited Lady Mary in her dreams?"

My question stopped Matthew midway between the couch and the entrance. He clicked his heels to shift his position and faced me. His facial expression had sort of a scholarly look.

"I thought it might be a bit too much for her," he explained. "To visit her, I mean." He stopped the next crossing of his lips, holding off his next statement. He mentally changed whatever it is he was about to say with "God knows what hideous creature I might transform into. I wouldn't want to frighten her. Besides, I can't say I'm not hideous-looking as I currently am."

But I knew what his unspoken statement was. More than feeling quite frightened for Lady Mary, Matthew was afraid on what the situation would do to himself. He still wasn't as fully recuperated from his sudden departure from earth, and, as reason would have it, he'd rather be secure first than plunge into a world where certainty is nothing but a distant idea. Strangely enough, I think Matthew knew that I was aware what he wanted to say, so perhaps verbalizing it wouldn't make much of a difference. The apprehension was already there, looming like a fortuitous cloud.

"But I really want to thank you, Thomas," he gave me one of his polite smile, "for giving me the might and main."

I laughed myself silly. "I never thought I'd hear it from you," going along the direction of the conversation, and happy that it was swerving away from the doleful state. "Have to cross that one out of my bucket list!"

"A dead person accomplishing a goal before he wants to die. How novel!" he patted me on the back. I froze a bit, and I guess Matthew saw my eccentric reaction because he immediately disengaged any contact he had with me. Not that I didn't want to be touched, but I was taken aback by the thought that he was Matthew Crawley, my former _master_.

I didn't want to ruin the moment, so I defended, albeit a bit fatuously, my actions. "We're still together, aren't we? My bucket list has its own expiry date, thank you very much."

Matthew gave the impression of having forgotten my previous, awkward twitching, and reached out a hand to my shoulder again. This time, I welcomed his warm, concrete attempt at solidifying his promise of friendship. For the last couple of years, physical contact, to me, always felt like a black and white area of being, well, sensually _physical_, or none at all. It felt nice to be in the middle, and appreciate everything from the lens of amity.

Still, I thought that the idea of a little tension would jolt him up a bit so, without any further thinking, I clasped my hand against his and pressed his fingers tightly. It was all jolly, yet I cannot help myself but gaze at the obviously startled Matthew with the look I usually, should I say, reserve for those I eye for purposes more than friendship. My inner urge to riot into laughter was unsuccessfully translated outside since the man before me squinched up uncomfortably. I could see my lecherous eyes and puckered lips from the blue pool transfixed in Matthew's eyes.

Suddenly, something unexpected happened. The young Crawley instantly felt less tautened. His shoulders leveled down and his face changed from skeptical to… sinister? My suspicions were confirmed when, by whatever unknown force of God, he inched himself nearer to me so that we were less than arm's length. The sensation was increasingly maddening, it was off the chart.

"Here I thought that men were only allowed to touch other men in times of war," I said coolly, trying very hard to not appear disconcerted at being cornered in my own game.

I never knew Matthew could sense fear. Or if not fear, just unease. He went beyond pressing his hand into mine, and literally intertwined our fingers. I wanted to bark at the moon. Our hands were locked in frozen intercourse but inside, I was quite sure that we could hear the tiny pummels of the vessels that were rapidly beating out of involuntary accord.

"But we're past the war, Thomas." I tried not to gasp, or if I failed in that aspect, hoped that it would be inconspicuous. He whispered to my ear and inched his way closer so that the fabric of our clothes were now brushing softly against each other. "Aren't we?"

The morning rays from outside occupied the space between us, but other than that, our personal spaces were now evanescent and we were becoming too dangerously familiar with the proximity. I brazened my courage out and stared, no, _locked_ my eyes aggressively at Matthew who, on the other hand, riposted by softening the translucent glare in his eyes, giving off a much more carnal look. All this happened while we were literally inches away from each other, simmering in each other's warm breaths.

Suddenly, when the duel of wills was, honestly, becoming more than too much, we concurrently, with Matthew being ahead by a tenth of a second, did the only logical thing to do.

We laughed.

The hysteria made it easy for us to break apart from our proximity, without having to feel the whirlpool of mixed and uneasy emotions. We made our way to the couch to catch up on our breathing, since the both of us were too childishly high-strung in proving our pride. But decidedly so, I had to admit that my little piece of fun, although surprisingly different that the way I expected it to be, was, to the most extent, amusing. Matthew almost made me believe that he was really keyed up.

"I never knew you'd be up for that," I looked casually at the blonde on my right, who stared back.

"Believe me, I surprised myself too." But I suppose the Matthew's revelation did not bother him at all. He didn't seem to be making such a huge ruckus about it, and he was not the yellow-livered aristocrat I thought he was. In fact, if I didn't know any better, he was delighted. It may be a bridge too far, but I can notice that his movements, and the environment between us, in total, have become more relaxed. I was happy that the route of our relationship was diverting away from being ironclad with utter authority to one more liberal and badly behaved.

"You know what, Thomas," Matthew stirred up the conversation again, "you really ought to take my proposal of friendship more sincerely."

He sat upright this time, and puffed out his sleeves that took the appearance of untidy drapes. "I mean it."

I was swathed with wonder to even smile. I wanted to let him know that I appreciate it, I even briefly considered hugging him. Here, in front of me, was the former future Earl of Downton, asking me if I could be his friend. While it may be true that my life as a valet hasn't been sweet as his, I could take comfort on the stroke of luck from the other spectrum. That outside life, I could still be sentient. I can care for, and I can be taken cared of.

Passing my better, or should I just say formal judgments aside, I closed the distance between us and hugged Matthew. I didn't have any malice in my intention, no, it was far from it. I felt like a boy hugging his brother, hoping and knowing that the gesture will make me happy and give me strength. Matthew must have been, yet again, shocked. But he should know that I've been barely embraced my whole life, let alone shown the minimal amount of concern. Care was odious in my way of life. So naturally, the untrained response to situations such as this is completely unfamiliar territory for me. I could only do what I cautiously discerned was genuine, which was, of course, to show some contact.

If anyone from our house could see the act, the behavior would be, by leaps and bounds, modern and definitely on the beaten path. I secretly hoped that, if I were given the chance to be alive again, the world I would be born into would be more like this – more understanding and open. More Matthews, and less neophobics.

I could only be too happy when he responded and placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Someone's been getting too close while I'm away, I see," the new voice that grew louder with each word could only be Sybil's.

"Good morning, my dear sister," Matthew stood up to greet her. He departed from the couch to welcome her into the room. "I –"

Sybil abruptly stopped him just in time for his next line, "don't ask me if I've had a good night's sleep. You know we can't. I'll slap you if you do!" The tone in her voice was rigorous, but without a hint of vexation.

"You have to pass through my new friend now before you can get to me," Matthew said in a high and mighty voice. Obviously, he was referring to me. The blonde paced away from Sybil towards me. He crossed his arms in front of Sybil, reveling in the fact that I was his new ally.

But he was not to get away too easily. I rolled my eyes and walked away from him, towards the direction of the young lady. "Oh but you see, we footmen have this pledge of loyalty to our original – " emphasizing the word like Jimmy does, "masters, bound even beyond death."

Sybil smirked. "Besides, we've only known each other for a few days." I raised my eyebrow at the flustered Matthew who, despite being a well-known solicitor, couldn't even afford an objection.

The distance between us was filled by Sybil. Perhaps she thought it would be best to serve as a buffer to our newly discovered hobby of tongue-lashing. Although I hardly doubt a fight between the two of us would ensue. What else would we get out of with? Our fight, harping on each other's words, is much more mischievous and fun.

"You gentlemen should be on your best behavior before I rat the both of you to Carson. Now, what were you two rambling about before I rudely interrupted?" She gave the most amusing dressing down I have heard.

I felt like a callous prat for having too much amusement, and consequently almost forgetting it was Jimmy's birthday. Thankfully enough, Sybil lured me back to discuss my original motives and require her help. Matthew and I told her about our plans and the role that she would play in it. At first she looked perplexed at the idea of communicating with somebody alive, but eventually her eyes began to light up at the challenge. It only took her a few minutes to sort out an outrageous but brilliant plan.

After having gone through our scheme a couple of times, the three of us stood up to commence with our operations.

"We'll give James a birthday he'll never forget," Matthew declared as we went out of the drawing room.

Oh God, I hope so.

* * *

**A/N: This is quite a silly arc in the whole story (I didn't even plan it when I made the outline!) but I suppose it has its purposes, which are: a) to eventually give Jimmy a dose of happiness on his birthday, and b) establish a strong foundation between Thomas and Matthew, who surprisingly share a high amount of compatibility.**


	14. Chapter 14

The walk upstairs was never an enjoyable stroll for Anna. Not that she couldn't very well carry her usual cleaning artillery of brooms, towels, and whatnot. Years of service have even taught her the sophistication of tidying. It was because each step towards her master's chambers are a begrudging contagion of what she is, a servant, and what she is not, a master.

Usually, she does not let that reality constantly plague her mind, but there are days wherein being nonpartisan takes its toll, overheats, and needs to shut down to recuperate. More particularly when the grating discord stares at her on a daily basis.

Today is one of them. She felt – _knew_ – it from the moment she woke up. Her eyes were a little more protruding. Her whole body made itself heavier, uncooperative from the constant state of weariness. So with more heave and sigh than customary, she trod upwards.

"Anna, may I have a word?"

A familiar and interrupting voice reached out behind her. She masked her perplexed, fatigued expression before she turned around to face one of the most unassuming personalities at Downton.

"Good morning Mrs. Hughes. How can I help you?"

The elder woman gave her a nod in response to the greeting. Her age-streaked face, however, remained unchanged. Not that Anna minded, in fact she liked how the head housemaid presented herself. Her face was normally never stern, but not in a cloying way. Hers was unlike the condemnatory expression plastered onto Carson's visage.

"I wonder if you could proceed to his lordship's office before going about your cleaning duties," she stomped gently towards the direction of the lady's maid.

Anna slightly crossed her brows, silently wondering the urgent need to be dispatched to Robert Crawley's office early on in the morning, while Mrs. Hughes, hiding her hands in the pockets of her uniform, answered glibly.

"I happened to be there a few minutes ago to check if the new curtains were installed, but instead I found the vase on one of his tables keeled over," she narrated the incident as if it was the most revolting situation to take place in the household in months.

"Anyway," she mimicked a sough, "I already dealt with most of the damage, but I still have to account for the delivery of food for tonight. Would you please be so kind to replace the water on the vase and the wet tablecloth –"

"Of course, the works." Anna didn't mean to interrupt, but it sure looked like the other way around. Before she could come back with an apology, the widening of her olive eyes possibly giving her a sense on who she was _actually_ talking to, Mrs. Hughes removed her right hand from her pocket and placed it on the younger one's shoulder. It subsequently quelled the young maid's trifles that she might be told off.

"Thank you, Anna," with a smile that was neither wrought up nor overly affectionate, Mrs. Hughes walked past her.

"Let's not give a family any more reason not to survive this house," her tone trailed off. Mrs. Hughes' footsteps were in perfect rhythm, almost assimilating the tick-tock of the grandfather clock by the corner. The tempo ushered Anna to let her rational counsel reign and stop standing still in order that she get on with her new assignment.

And so the descent to the servants' area, procuring two pails, a mop, and a new set of tablecloth went by smoothly in less than 10 minutes, but it did not mean that Anna forgot to make a mental note to counsel one of the maids, whoever was assigned to the office anyway, for a clumsy job well done.

In the course of her existence, Anna was always seen as the kindhearted soul of the bunch of servants, the one who always meant well. To a certain extent, this bears a grain of truth, especially in her external actions. She barely, or even never at all, exposes a character of threat to any of her co-workers. However, as she is only human, she also bears an odious side. But this is usually contained inside the thoughts that sometimes trespass the walls of good conduct. Although her sinister tendencies have not galloped extremely far as some of the downstairs staff, particularly O'Brien, that is not to say that she has no black ink tainted on her insides.

Particularly today, when she was about to mentally set fire the maid who caused this negligence.

Things didn't go to well either when she went to Lord Grantham's office. She now understood why Mrs. Hughes was baffled in their previous encounter minutes ago. With the darkness of the night being swept to make way for light to ooze through the windows, the head housemaid might even take the insolence a notch further. The room looked tidy, the furniture and the ornaments of yore were as static as the thick, quiet air. The exception of the pomp lay in the middle of the office – the mess created by the toppled vase. It was standing upright now, but the damage had wet the surrounding areas, in perfect dissimilarity to the immaculate state of neatness of the rest of the room.

With a twitch on her lips, she proceeds to the site of the calamity. The lilac tablecloth was drenched from the water from the vase, with most of its fabric drowning in a few shades darker. The ladies made didn't know if her years of service were to blame, but the state of disarray practically shouted to her to clean up, and for reasons other than her own mind entertaining these thoughts, she was powerless to object.

She carried the pails, one with fresh water, and one empty. Her unsteady stride had caused the liquid in the wooden pail to ripple ostentatiously before it settled down on solid ground. She took out the vase and planted it on the floor, careful to not sidestep it. Luckily, the vase remained unbroken, not even a crack would be noticed. The ceramic was skillfully molded from quality material. The transparent jar had ornate designs of leaves, accented with gold, covering both the top and bottom of the cylinder, while little cherubs adorned the middle area.

Next, Anna took away the wet table cover and folded it neatly. She gave herself a quick, sardonic smile. It wasn't as if the lilac cloth would be presented or offered to anyone. Well, it's not exactly no one, but she surmised that the laundry servants wouldn't take an unfolded, dirty cloth as a grave violation of refinement. They don't really count, do they? But she folded it anyway, since it was already halfway done, and the part of her protocol directly hinged with service told her that it was the courteous thing to do.

She covered the wooden side table with a new table cloth, like a blanket protecting against harsh conditions. It was also hued in lilac, but this time, it had accents of white thread woven on its sides. Still, it wasn't as impactful for Robert Crawley to notice, unless he has a thing for pastel fabric. The next thing she did was to remove the flowers from the vase, but not without smelling them first. The mixture of orchids, violets, and gentians provided an elated tang that sprouted from the ungroomed area of the office. Even as they are stemmed away from their parent plants, the flora were animate in their display of color, with each red, orange, and yellow blossoming in full saturation to show off its existence. The sight and scent was all too alluring that Anna had to indulge in inhaling the life out of them again before placing them neatly on the floor.

The liquid in the vase, or at least the handfuls left of it, didn't appear to be murky it all. It could be assumed that it was just recently changed this morning before it spilled, so the current replacement would technically be the second time where the flowers would be given a fresh batch of water in the span of a few hours. The thought of the blossoms requiring a fastidious amount of care was simply appalling. Nonetheless, Anna proceeded with pouring the water to the empty pail, curiously eyeing the transfer like there was a spectacle of fluid crystals taking place. Now, the two pails were brimming with fresh liquid, and besides the amount, the quality, the _lack _of bleak color, in each was unnoticeable.

When she was about to reach for the other pail with the fresher water, something before her sight made her hand zealously halt in midair. This incident began even before she went to pick the wooden object up. It piqued her curiosity.

The water was moving.

* * *

**A/N: No, this is not a misplaced chapter. The rest will be revealed (partially) next chapter. But if you've been following this story for quite a while, you might subconsciously note how this arc might pan out. Thank you for reading, please review!**


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